


Mutation

by JayEz



Series: Virus Verse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (at least in the beginning), (only one scene), Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Established Relationship, HP: EWE, Homophobic Ron, Horcruxes, Light BDSM, M/M, Minor Character Death, Second War with Voldemort, Sirius Lives, only the epilogue is missing :), technically complete
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:34:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living at the safe house is not what Draco expected - one chance encounter with a Muggle will change his life profoundly. Harry enjoys his time with Sirius in preparation for his and Hermione’s subsequent hunt and in the process solves one part of the riddle of R.A.B.</p><p>Alternate canon, continuation of my 'plotnographic' alternate sixth year story, Virus. </p><p>EDIT 03-2017: This is technically complete since the main conflict is resolved as of chapter 12. The only thing missing now is the epilogue.</p><p>
  <strong>[due to real-life circumstances, all my fanfics are officially on hiatus]</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by [ vernie_klein](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vernie_klein/pseuds/vernie_klein).
> 
> Part I was written for [ vernie_klein](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vernie_klein/pseuds/vernie_klein) who wanted a story where I wouldn’t have bad things happen to Harry and Draco after they get together. I obliged though I make no promises for part II. Ye be warned. (Spoilers: I’m a sucker for happy endings. Enough said.)

_Time is never time at all_  
_You can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth_  
_And our lives are forever changed_  
_We will never be the same_

_\- “Tonight, tonight”, Smashing Pumpkins_

*

The sky is growing brighter as Draco watches, overseeing the port from his place on the balcony. It’s warm despite the early hour and Draco can hear noise from the harbour; the first signs of life in this strange city. 

His gaze wanders to his left, sliding over grass-covered slopes leading up the hill. They are on the Eastern edge of Port Tennant, Swansea, Wales. A Muggle town. 

It’s not that he expected their safe house to be situated near Magical folk – too risky, they might be recognised too easily. Yet Draco has hoped for a mansion in the middle of nowhere. Instead, when Professor McGonagall took him here last night, he found himself in a small townhouse with actual neighbours. 

“There are certain rules you have to follow, Mr Malfoy,” McGonagall told him sternly. “Performing magic is to be kept at a minimum and never ever do a spell in front of a Muggle. You may not have the trace on you anymore though we can never be too careful when faced with You-Know-Who.”

Draco snorts and hugs his knees as a breeze makes him shiver. As if he has any inclination to interact with _Muggles_ …

“Now, your neighbours’ memories have been altered; they believe your family has been living here for seven years already and that your father’s job has taken him to America which explains his absence. You will go by the surname Mallory for the time being. We can’t risk anyone becoming suspicious. Also, your mother has already formed bonds with some of the families nearby – I would urge you to follow her example.”

Draco didn’t say anything, he merely let his disdain show on his face which caused the headmistress to sigh.

“Mr Malfoy, you are confined to this town for an unknown amount of time. You might have to spend years here. It will be imperative that you get accustomed to the lifestyle of the people surrounding you or you will be found out.”

McGonagall left and Draco failed at falling asleep in his new room. The bed was comfortable enough but still unfamiliar and the sheets were cold and empty next to him. 

So Draco has spent the past hours watching the moon and the subsequent sunrise, realising after much contemplation that he should stop whining about his situation. It’s either the safe house or being captured by the Dark Lord – his situation could be much, much worse. 

“Draco?”

“Good morning, mother.”

He looks up and smiles. Staying here has been good on Narcissa. She has lost her haunted look, the lines on her face aren’t as hard as Draco remembers and she has more colour in her cheeks. 

“Did you sleep?”

“A bit,” Draco lies without missing a beat. 

She draws out a chair and sits down behind him at the balcony table. “I know this is all very new but I think we can enjoy our time here. Give it a chance. At least we still have our house-elves.”

Draco chuckles. Five house-elves for this small a house are a tad excessive, yet the alternative would have been killing them since they can’t set the creatures free – they know too many secrets. 

He and his mother take breakfast in the morning sun, and afterwards, Draco explores the house. He noticed some strange devices the previous night and they still confuse him today. A big machine is standing on a small table facing the sofa so that everyone sitting down will have to stare at it. 

Draco approaches it cautiously, wary of hidden traps or dangers. He waves his hand in front of what appears to be a screen yet nothing happens. Tentatively, Draco presses a button – and the machine comes to life. 

Draco doesn’t scream. He doesn’t. 

“It’s a television.” Draco whirls around to where his mother is standing in the doorway, a smirk on her lips. It almost looks as if she is laughing at him. “Watching it is the Muggle’s preferred activity in their spare time as far as I can tell. There are some interesting programmes, too. You can learn a lot about Muggles by watching it.”

Draco nods, eyebrows raised high, and presses the button again which silences the apparatus, thank Merlin. 

Narcissa proceeds to show him even more Muggle technology. There is a radio, which works almost exactly like a magical one, a machine that produces coffee, a plastic kettle to boil water for tea something called a telephone which apparently is how Muggles communicate since they don’t have a floo network. 

Everything runs on electricity, especially the lights. Draco has to admit he is intrigued. Muggles seem to have found an alternative for Magic. 

*

The following days are a blur to Draco. Narcissa takes him out shopping for Muggle clothes and the currency is confusing and the coins and bills are ugly. At least he obtains smart clothes: several suits that fit him like a second skin, dress shirts, some t-shirts and jumpers as well as a few pairs of something called jeans which he remembers Harry referencing once. 

Draco has to concede that he does look good in them. 

His mother also insists on buying him a mobile phone. The idea horrifies him a little yet Narcissa tells him, “Everyone who can afford them has them.” 

Draco still doesn’t trust the TV, which is why he turns to the books his mother salvaged from the Manor. She only managed to bring a fraction of their library but was careful to take the most valuable and illegal copies. 

Draco has been counting on this because ever since Harry told him about Horcruxes; Draco has been itching to do research on this particular topic. 

The last two weeks of June pass in this manner before Draco has to face another challenge. 

“I invited the Smiths and Pearsons over for tea on Sunday,” Narcissa informs him Saturday at breakfast. 

“Why?”

“They want to welcome you back from school, Draco. Don’t forget, they believe they have known you for several years. Not well, admittedly, but they are aware of your existence.”

“Do I have to be there?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you have any pressing appointments that slipped my mind?”

Draco scowls into his coffee. 

*

He survives tea though it is a close call. He almost died of boredom. The two married couples remind Draco of some of his mother’s high-class Wizarding friends and the conversational topics correspond accordingly. 

After one and a half hours of “Have you heard what she did” or “Did you see” or “You won’t believe what” Draco excuses himself and is promptly kissed on the cheek by both Mrs Smith and Mrs Pearson. 

“You’ve grown into such a handsome young man, Draco.” 

“I’m sure you’re a right heart-breaker, aren’t you? Your boarding school is co-ed, isn’t it? Anyone special to write to during the summer?”

“Not anymore,” Draco replies curtly and flees after another quick apology. 

*

When Harry sees Sirius again for the first time after Christmas, it’s not as a big dog at King’s Cross but in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, cooking supper for the three of them. 

His godfather breaks into a wide grin when he catches sight of Harry in the doorframe and steps closer, pulling Harry into a hug. Harry notes that Sirius is a little thinner than the last time he saw him and hopes it is due to the solitude of his family’s house, not to anything else. 

“It’s great to have you back, Harry.” 

“It’s great to be back,” Harry answers and accepts a bowl of salad to carry into the dining room. 

They manage to get through dinner without mentioning Draco, Dumbledore’s death or Harry’s involvement in everything while instead they talk about less touchy subjects like Sirius’ mission to make Grimmauld Place more liveable (his mother’s portrait is still hanging firmly in its place yet apparently, the other rooms have much improved) or that Hermione is dating Zabini. 

“Let’s take this to the living room, shall we?” Remus suggests and Sirius tells Kreacher to get them some drinks. Harry has never been so glad for alcohol. 

“So,” Sirius starts and trails off, apparently unsure of where to begin. “You and Draco Malfoy. How did that happen?” 

Harry decided, somewhere between Draco leaving, Ron and him exchanging insecure glances at the funeral and Hermione swearing she will stand by Harry until the very end, that it will be best to simply tell his godfather the entire truth. He doesn’t want to keep secrets from Sirius, not when there is a war coming and Harry has to join right in. 

So he recounts the true story of how Draco and he met, how Harry found out, how their relationship developed, how they organised the safe house and how they parted the day after Dumbledore died. 

Sirius doesn’t say anything throughout his tale, though his face shows his thoughts clearly. Right now, Harry would almost describe it as rueful. 

“You’ve fallen in love with that git, haven’t you?” 

Harry shrugs helplessly. 

“Does he love you back?”

Harry nods, a smile ghosting around his lips and Sirius’ expressions smoothens out. 

“Good. And seeing as he didn’t betray you in the end, I’m much more inclined to accept this.”

“There is no ‘this’,” Harry mumbles. 

“What?”

Harry draws a shaky breath, fighting off the emotion still high in his chest whenever he thinks about it. “I’m not going to see him again, not while the war is still raging.”

Sirius remains silent for a minute, then suddenly puts his arms around Harry in a heartfelt embrace. Sirius holds him until Harry isn’t shaking anymore, until he feels strong enough to lean back and wipe his cheeks dry. 

Harry is eternally grateful that he doesn’t need to put into words what he is feeling, that his godfather seems to understand without being told. 

Looking around, he notices that Remus left the room. Even better – Dumbledore asked him not to tell anyone about the Horcruxes but he doesn’t want to keep it from Sirius. Asking Remus to leave would have been unpleasant. 

“There’s something else I need to tell you about,” Harry begins and manages to explain everything up to the point where Dumbledore and he left for the cave before Remus knocks on the door. 

“It’s getting late, I’m off to bed,” he says. They bid him good night and Harry can’t stifle a yawn. 

“You should be, too, Harry. You can tell me the rest tomorrow, alright?”

*

The next day, Remus is away on Order business and Sirius presents Harry with a few thick volumes when he comes down to breakfast. Well, strictly speaking it may be lunchtime but in Harry’s mind, it’s still breakfast. 

“What are those?”

“Books,” Sirius replies, deadpan. Harry raises his eyebrows. “Well, not just any books. Defensive spells, some about Dark Magic. I figured if you’re going to hunt Horcruxes, you might want to prepare yourself.”

All thoughts of tea or food forgotten, Harry grabs the copy on top of the pile. It looks ancient, the binding broken in several places, the parchment yellow with time. 

“Where did you find these?”

Sirius smirks. “The Black library. Quite extensive, really. Most of the things in there are illegal, so there might be even more useful books in there.” 

“This is brilliant!” 

Harry spends the meal leafing through the volumes, eager for Hermione’s reaction as well as for time to try out some of the spells, yet he still has a story to finish. He even brought the note he and Dumbledore found down with him to show to Sirius. 

“So Dumbledore died for nothing?” 

“Well, I’m not sure. Someone was already there, but I don’t know if they destroyed the Horcrux or not.” Harry pulls out the parchment. “This was inside the locket.”

He hands it over to Sirius who unfolds it and begins to read. Suddenly, all colour drains from Sirius’ face, leaving him pale as a ghost. 

“Sirius, what is it? Do you know who R. A. B. is?!” Harry asks, unable to come up with any other explanation for his godfather’s behaviour. 

Sirius nods slowly. 

“Who? Who is it? Where is he?” 

“R. A. B. Regulus Abraxas Black. My brother.”

Harry stares. Now that Sirius said it, it is so obvious; Harry can’t believe they didn’t see it sooner. 

Then his head snaps up so fast he fears he might get whiplash. “Then the locket might still be here!”

Sirius’ eyes widen. “Kreacher!” he bellows and a second later, the elf appears next to them at the kitchen table. 

When Harry’s heart stops racing fifteen minutes later, they have learned that the locket indeed used to be at Grimmauld Place but that Mundungus Fletcher spent a lot of Order meetings sneaking around the house in search for valuables that Sirius wouldn’t miss. Kreacher appeared to be in genuine distress as he told them how Mundungus took his master’s beloved locket from him to sell it to who knows whom. 

“Find Mundungus and bring him here,” Sirius orders and Kreacher disappears with a _crack_. 

“Damn,” Harry breathes out. “I didn’t expect us to solve this so fast.”

“Well,” Sirius drawls, “what would you do without me?”

*

When Kreacher doesn’t return within the next two hours – which Harry spends reading the books Sirius gave him and waiting for a tell-tale _crack_ – Sirius takes pity on him. 

“Stop fretting. That tosser of a man has a few tricks up his sleeve; might take a while for Kreacher to find him.” Sirius takes Harry’s empty teacup away. “Why don’t you call Hermione? Didn’t you say she wants to help you?”

“Right…” Harry hurries upstairs and finds his mobile phone where he left it last Christmas. Somewhere in the depth of his trunk there’s a piece of parchment with Hermione’s number on it which she had given him in case of emergencies when owls were simply too slow. 

“Hermione Granger speaking.”

“Hermione! Hi, it’s Harry.”

“What’s wrong?!” she shouts, immediately worried. 

“No, it’s good news,” he assures her and summarizes the events of that morning. “So now we’re waiting for Kreacher to return with Mundungus and then we’ll know where the real locket is!”

“That’s brilliant!” Hermione really does sound enthusiastic but something in her voice is slightly off. Harry can’t put his finger on it, though. 

“So, I was wondering,” he begins, “do you want to come over? You should be here when Mundungus gets here. That is, if you still want to-“

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I want to!” She draws a deep breath, audible even over the phone line. “I’ll be there tonight, okay? I need to say good-bye to Mum and Dad.” 

She sounds strangely sad. 

“Alright. See you tonight, then!”

Harry hangs up, not sure how he is supposed to sort the conversation they just had. 

Everything becomes clear once Hermione arrives a few hours later with a suitcase and a handbag. Knowing his friend, she could fit all of her belongings in these two items and hell, she probably did. 

Harry stares at her blankly for a few heartbeats. “When you said you wanted to say good-bye… you meant for good.”

She nods curtly, blinking rapidly. “It’s safest for them.”

“And they just let you go off-“

“Don’t be daft.” Another deep breath. “I obliviated them. As far as they’re concerned, they never had a daughter.”

“Oh, Hermione…” Harry crosses the space between them and hugs her fiercely. “When everything is over, you’ll be able to go back and set everything right,” he assures her, at this point in time even believing it himself. 

*

June has almost ended when Kreacher fulfils his task. Sirius, Hermione and Harry have split the newspaper amongst themselves as the loud _crack_ echoes around the kitchen. 

“Kreacher has returned with the thief Mundungus Fletcher, Master.” 

Hermione disarms the man before he can even draw his wand properly and Sirius tackles him to the floor as he makes to flee. 

“What?” Mundungus bellows, writhing underneath Sirius. “Wha’ve I done? Setting a bleedin’ house-elf on me, what are you playing at, wha’ve I done, lemme go, lemme go or-“

“You’re in no position to make threats,” Harry says, wand pointed at the man. Sirius eases off the floor and Mundungus sits up carefully while Kreacher explains why it took him so long to apprehend the thief. 

“Well done, Kreacher,” Sirius tells him after a long look from Hermione who lectured Harry’s godfather about the mentality of house-elves and his duty as a Master towards the creature. The memory will make Harry chuckle for a very long time. 

“We have a few questions for you,” Harry tells Mundungus, who immediately throws his hands up. 

“A’right, I took’em goblets! But Sirius, y’never cared about any of the junk-“

“That doesn’t give you the right to steal my possessions!” Sirius roars. Mundungus shrinks in size and suddenly, Kreacher is there, swinging a heavy-bottomed pan at his head.  
“Call ’im off! Call ’im!” Mundungus screams. 

“Kreacher, no!” Sirius calls out and the elf stops, pan still high in the air, ready to strike again. 

“Perhaps just one more, Master Sirius, for luck?” he asks and Harry laughs heartily. Ever since Sirius gave Kreacher his brother’s fake locket, the elf has been a lot friendlier towards his master. 

“We need him conscious, but if he refuses to share his information, you can do the honours,” Sirius tells the elf and Mundungus winces. 

“A’right, what do you want?” The thief looks up at them defiantly. 

“When you raided the house during Order meetings, you took a silver locket. Where is it?”

“Why? Is it valuable?”

“You’ve still got it!” cries Hermione but Sirius shakes his head. 

“He’s wondering whether he should have asked more money for it.”

“More? That wouldn’t have been effing difficult… bleedin’ gave it away, di’n’t I? No choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was selling in Diagon Alley an’ she come up to me an’ asks if I’ve got a licence for trading in magical artefacts. Bleedin’ snoop. She was gonna fine me, but she took a fancy to the locket an’ told me she’d take it an let me off that time an’ to fink myself lucky.”

“Who was this woman?” Harry asks, the grip on his want tightening in anticipation. 

“I dunno, some Ministry lag.” Mundungus thinks; Harry can almost hear the wheels turning in his head. “Little woman. Bow on top of ’er head. Looked like a toad.”

Red sparks shoot from Harry’s wand without prompting and he immediately steps back before he can hurt anyone. Hermione appears to be equally shocked by Mundungus’ revelation. 

“What? Who is it?” Sirius asks finally when no one volunteered any information. 

“Dolores Umbridge,” Harry explains, glancing at his right hand where the scar is still visible. 

Sirius knows the woman only from Harry’s stories but it is still enough to make him blanche. 

“Out with you,” he snaps at Mundungus who disapparates without much prompting after reaching out a hand for his wand. Sirius turns to face Harry and Hermione once the kitchen is theirs only once again. 

“Okay, what’s our plan?”

“Our plan?” Harry shoots back. “What do you mean, our plan?”

“Well, I can be useful-“

“Sirius, you’re not coming with us.”

“Only to get the locket from Umbridge-“

“It’s too dangerous! She works at the Ministry and you’re still a wanted criminal in their eyes!” 

“You can’t do this alone,” his godfather emphasises fiercely. 

“He won’t,” Hermione cuts in. “I’ll be there.”

“Two teenagers aren’t enough-“

“I didn’t tell you about the Horcruxes so that you can run off with us and get yourself killed!” Harry shouts but it comes out a tad louder than planned. 

“But it’s okay if you do it?” Sirius snaps back. “I’m your godfather, I have to protect you.”

“Not this time. Do you know how close I got to losing you last year? And that was all my fault! If you’d died, it would’ve been on my conscience for the rest of my life. And if you come with us now and you don’t survive, it’ll destroy me, Sirius. I can’t lose you. I’ve lost too many people to lose you as well. So you’re going to stay here and stay safe. You’re welcome to help us prepare but you are not going on any missions, do you understand?” 

Sirius looks like he wants to argue but the words die in his throat. Undoubtedly he is thinking of James and Lilly, of Dumbledore, Harry muses. Harry knows that for once he isn’t simply a stubborn teenager, he is right and his godfather better acknowledge it. 

“I just feel so useless, locked away in here.” It’s barely more than a whisper. 

“You’re keeping Remus safe,” Hermione says softly. “All those missions… He looked ragged when he came back two days ago. Without you, he’d go mad for sure.”

This earns her a small smile from Sirius. 

“And like I said – you can help us with the preparations. The books you gave us are invaluable. We’d be worse off without you, Sirius.” 

The look in his godfather’s eyes is a little less haunted, a little less pained now and Harry hopes that this time will be the last that they have this conversation.

*

The days following the tea party, Draco ventures out of the house to explore the streets of Port Tennant and Swansea in an attempt to grow accustomed to his Muggle neighbourhood since, well, McGonagall had a point. 

Friday in the late afternoon, Draco forgets time as he lounges in a restaurant and watches the passer-byes, tries to find out what the current trends are in the Muggle world and how people’s mannerisms are like. 

The sun is setting when he notices he should be going and that, of course, his mobile phone is lying at his desk at the safe house (because really, he hasn’t used it once since he got it, what would be the point in taking it along?). 

It is rather late by the time he reaches an area he is familiar with – and no, he didn’t get lost, he merely took strategic detours – so he speeds up, striding through the darkness between streetlights. 

Suddenly, a group of four people emerges from the shadows and block his path. They look like teenagers; all are wearing jeans that are ripped in places though Draco can’t tell if they bought them like this or whether the tears stem from excessive wear.

“Where’re ya off to, rich boy?” one of them – presumably their leader - asks. 

“I don’t think that’s of any interest to you.”

His response sends the group into a laughing fit. The leader is the first to recover. “Can ya be any more posh, mate?”

Draco doesn’t know how to respond so he doesn’t. The blokes are advancing now and he wonders how he will escape these unfavourable odds without his wand. 

“I’m sure a git like ya has a lot a money on ya. Let’s see some bucks.”

“And if I don’t?” Draco asks since frankly, he is a wizard and these are Muggles. They stand no chance. 

His thoughts come back to haunt him when the leader only shrugs and takes a swing. Pain blossoms across Draco’s left cheek and the force of the blow makes him stumble. 

“Stop it, Costello.”

Suddenly, all attention snaps from Draco to another figure behind him. The teenager standing there is probably younger than Draco, a little taller with short, dark hair and a soft face but a dangerous glint in his eyes. 

A movement draws Draco’s eyes down. The newcomer is holding a knife in a steady hand. The attackers back away. 

“Whatever, Jones. This dim-whit’s worthless anyway.”

Before Draco can vent his indignation at the insult, the gang is off, leaving him behind with a boy with a knife who merely stares at him. Draco refuses to fidget. 

“Well, that could have been unpleasant. I’ll be off, then.” Draco turns around though it doesn’t take more than a few seconds until there is a hand on his shoulder, turning him around. 

“Aren’t you going to thank me?” The kid has a heavy Welsh accent yet thankfully, it’s not thick enough to render his words unintelligible. 

Draco wasn’t going to but he doubts this Jones will be happy about that. “Right. Thank you for scaring off the crazy kids. I don’t know how I would have survived without you,” he adds in a sarcastic drawl. 

Jones catches up on his tone (apparently he does have a few IQ points on Crabbe and Goyle and recognizes sarcasm) and growls at him – unfortunately not in a good way. 

“Listen, rich boy,” he seethes, “I know you think you’re better than everyone else but this neighbourhood is anything but safe for the likes of you. Costello and his gang would have taken you apart-“

“He’s just a kid, I had everything under control,” Draco protests. 

Jones takes a step back and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Alright, then I’ll let you walk home alone. They’re still watching and if they see you without me, they’ll jump you again. But don’t worry – I’m sure you can handle guns.”

Guns. Draco knows about guns, he has seen them on the telly in those Muggle shows. Guns shoot bullets that can kill people and Draco has no clue as to whether magic can help in such a scenario. 

The thought of walking home alone suddenly makes his palms sweaty but Jones is already storming off. Draco sprints after him, swallowing a chunk of his pride and dignity as he does so. He doesn’t want to apologize to a _Muggle_ and accept the proffered help, yet he wants to die from a Muggle gunshot wound even less. 

“Oi! Jones!” As Draco comes level with him, the boy points his knife at him so Draco raises his arms. “Listen, I’m sorry I mocked you. Really.” He wants to go on, ask him to escort him home but there is only so much humiliation a Malfoy can take in one evening and his tongue won’t cooperate. 

Apparently, the apology is enough for Jones. “Fine.” He snaps the knife shut and puts it back into the pocket of his ragged denim jacket. “But you owe me one.” He looks at Draco expectantly, so he nods. “So, where’s home for you, rich boy?”

“Robert Owen Gardens.” 

“You’re even posher than I thought.”

“It’s called standards,” Draco snaps back, falling into step next to the boy. 

Jones snorts derisively. “Let me guess, you haven’t known anything but wealth your entire life, have you?” 

“So? Some families are better than others.”

“Some families are better _off_ than others. There’s a difference, you tosser.”

“Not for me.”

Jones looks at him, expression incredulous. “You really think that?”

Draco returns his gaze unwaveringly, though says nothing. He has made his point clear. 

Jones barks a humourless laugh. “Fuck, you must be filthily rich.”

Draco shrugs. It’s true; by Wizards standards, the Malfoys are one of the best-heeled families in Britain. Draco can’t fathom where they stand in the Muggle community, money wise. Narcissa hasn’t taken everything from their vaults in Gringotts but enough to allow them a comfortable life for the next twenty years. In case of an emergency, there are still the family accounts in Europe. 

Whatever Jones reads in Draco’s expression makes him grin. “Perfect that you’re owing me a favour, then. I’ll bring you home to your ma and ta unscathed and tell them how I saved you from the thugs and they’ll offer me a brilliant reward, won’t they? That’s how you lot solve everything, don’t you? Throw money at it?”

“So what, you decided to help me because I’ve got money?” 

“Pretty much.”

Draco can’t help being slightly impressed by this brand of Slytherin logic. 

“That’s fine with me.”

They continue in silence for a while, already climbing up the hill towards Robert Owen Gardens. 

“What’s your name, then?” Jones asks. 

“Draco Mallory.” 

“Draco? What sort of a name is that?”

“A majestic one,” he snaps because frankly, he has heard it all before. “What’s yours, then? I bet it’s something pathetic.”

“Ianto Jones.” The boy glares, daring Draco to make a joke. 

“Ianto? I’ve never heard that one before. What where your parents thinking?” he sneers and then stops for Jones’ eyes and his entire demeanour have turned icy. 

“Shut up, Mallory.” He highlights his order by flashing of knife and Draco closes his mouth. 

The rest of their journey to Draco’s home passes in silence, though at the end of it, Jones doesn’t leave. He plants his feet firmly on the ground next to Draco as he fiddles with his keys. 

He hasn’t even properly opened the door when Narcissa appears in the foyer, freely showing her worry. Once she sees the stranger with Draco, her mask slips back into place immediately though it has a few cracks. 

“Draco, where have you been? Are you hurt?” Her eyes are focus on his jaw and Draco remembers the strong right hook he took a while ago. 

“It’s nothing, mother.”

“This bloke got himself into a spot of trouble, ma’am. Would’ve been attacked by a local gang if I hadn’t been there.”

Narcissa’s eyes turn soft immediately and Draco has to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Oh, thank you! Why don’t you join us for supper? I have been waiting for my son here to return. There’s enough for the three of us.”

Draco wants to protest because inviting a stranger – a Muggle, above all – into their home is ill advised. Ianto will probably only make plans to return and steal their TV. 

“That’s very kind, ma’am,” Ianto says, voice dripping with honey and Draco wants to gag at the blatant act, “but my own family is waiting for me. I’ll just be on my way.”

“Let me at least invite you over for tea tomorrow, Mr…?”

“Ianto Jones.”

“Mr Jones. It’s the least I can do.”

“Mother, I’m sure Jones has better things to do than spend his time having tea with us. Why don’t you give him some money? I’m sure that will convey our gratitude appropriately.”

Jones’s eyes flicker to him for a brief moment of silent appreciation. Narcissa, apparently, seems to have changed more than Draco previously thought. When before there would have been no question about handing the boy a few coins (or in this case, Muggle bills), she now shakes her head. 

“That’s too impersonal, Draco. Please, Mr Jones, join us for tea tomorrow. Draco here hasn’t made any friends since he returned from school and I’m sure you will get along splendidly.”

If looks could kill, both Jones’ and Draco’s would have. Narcissa ignores their silent protest and through gritted teeth, Jones agrees. 

“Wonderful. Give our best to your parents and be careful on your way home.”

Jones gives them a fake smile and hurries off into the night. Once the front door is closed, Draco turns towards his mother. 

“What was that all about? All he wanted was money! Why couldn’t you have given him some and he’d be out of our hair?”

“Draco,” she says in a voice she uses when she accepts no protests and Draco sighs inwardly. “You need to find a few friends and this is as good a place to start as any. You’ll lose your mind, only being on your own. Give this a chance, that is all I ask.”

Draco knows any argument he makes will be futile. His mother has decided and so it will be. 

Bloody Muggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fyi, **Ianto Jones** is a character from BBC’s Torchwood. This is no crossover but since I have no time at the moment to write Torchwood fics, my Muse decided to explore my own interpretation of Ianto’s past in this story.  
>  So no knowledge of Torchwood is required - but if you’d like to see canon slash and aliens, I can highly recommend it ;)
> 
> For those who are interested in trivia like this: I decided on the safe house’s location with the help of Google Earth. So if you look at Port Tennant, Swansea, you’ll find the street Robert Owen Gardens in the North East ;)  
> EDIT 12-2016: I spent Xmas with a friend, who just happens to live in Swansea. YES, we visited the street!!!


	2. Gains and losses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco decides to bribe Ianto to appease his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s amazing how many of my favourite films were released in 1997! Nicolas Cage had a great year, didn’t he? (and kudos to the internet for supplying me with this information within 0.005 seconds!)
> 
> Slight warning: alcohol used as coping mechanism and non-graphic domestic violence

_Dear Darlin’, please excuse my writing._  
_I can’t stop my hands from shaking cos I’m cold and alone tonight._  
_I miss you and nothing hurts like no you._

_And no one understands what we went through._  
_It was short. It was sweet._  
_We tried._

_\- "Dear Darling", Olly Murs_

*

When Ianto Jones turns up on their doorstep the next day, he is wearing the same clothes as yesterday safe for the t-shirt and the new one at least looks clean. 

“Welcome,” Narcissa greets him and Draco rolls his eyes. Neither of them wants to be in this situation but somehow, his mother has decided that Draco needs to befriend this very Muggle. Muggle!

“Thanks for having me,” Ianto manages, however unconvincingly. 

“Oh, it’s the least we can do.” 

Draco snorts. How true, there are so many better options. Throwing money at the boy and never seeing him again, for example. 

They sit down, Narcissa pours tea, Ianto nibbles at a biscuit and answers a few questions. Apparently the boy is 16, has just finished fifth form (Draco even knows what that is supposed to mean) and is enjoying his holidays with his family. 

“My parents and my sister; she’s visiting from university,” Ianto clarifies. 

“That’s nice. My husband is abroad at the moment,” Narcissa explains, “for business.”

Ianto bites his lips and Draco is sure he would make a derogatory remark about Draco being the spoilt only child yet thankfully, the boy has some manners and refrains from commenting. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Narcissa rises abruptly. “I forgot that I had some laundry in the machine. I think it’s done now. Draco, keep our guest entertained, will you?” She fixes him with a stare that brooks no argument, even if Draco is hard-pressed to point out that his mother has never so much as touched the washing machine. 

Nevertheless Draco and Ianto glare at each other for three solid minutes before either of them speaks. 

“I want to make you an offer,” Draco says. 

“What kind of offer?”

He sighs heavily. “My mother is set on me befriending you. Now I’m prepared to offer to pay you for pretending to, what’s the term, hang out with me. As a friend.”

“How much?” Ianto asks immediately and Draco knows he already won. 

“Thirty-five a week.”

“Seventy.”

“Forty.”

“Alright, fifty and expenses.”

“Expenses? What possible expenses could you have as a friend?” 

“Obvious, really.” Ianto smirks. “Friends go to the movies, grab a pizza, get ice cream, go for drinks, that sort of thing and your mum won’t believe you if we’re not convincing. So, you give me fifty a week and pay for all the fancy stuff we’re going to do.”

Draco considers the Muggle, trying hard not to be impressed. Eventually, he nods. “Agreed. I pay you at the end of the week.”

“What about this week? It’s Saturday. I’m sure we’re going to hang out tomorrow.”

“Twenty.”

“Thirty.”

“Twenty or I’m not seeing you until Monday. Or do you have something better to do? Threatening kids with that knife of yours, for instance?”

Ianto glares, yet accepts the offer.

*

Spending time with Ianto is not as tedious as Draco anticipated. The bloke has a quick mind and doesn’t hesitate to snap back at Draco and once they discover that they have similar taste in TV shows (not that Draco knows that many, yet apparently, he knows exactly the right ones), they can be found in front of the TV in the living room most days. 

On Monday, they venture into the city where Ianto pesters him about watching a film in the cinema. Draco deflects successfully for a few hours until Ianto threatens to break off their deal and he has no choice but to buy two tickets to something called Con Air. 

Draco has turned pretending he is used to the Muggle way of life into an art form by now. Still, watching pictures move and people talk on an enormous screen as opposed to their telly strains his abilities. 

And he still holds the theory that whoever builds airplanes is, in fact, a wizard since there is no logical explanation for a giant metal construction to stay up in the air for that long. 

“Let’s go for drinks,” Ianto suggests afterwards and Draco groans. 

“I’ve spent enough money on you today! Besides, it’s late. I’m sure your parents are worried.”

Ianto snorts. “I doubt it.”

“Why’s that? I bet that Mummy and Daddy and sister are all waiting for their favourite son to return.” Draco’s can’t help the bitterness that creeps into his voice. 

“I’m no one’s favourite son.” 

Ianto doesn’t elaborate; Draco doesn’t enquire further yet files the information away for future references. 

*

“I want more money.” 

Draco looks up from his book to where Ianto just appeared in his doorframe. Narcissa must have let him in. 

“Why’s that?”

“Because. I need more money, so you’re going to give it to me.” 

Draco raises an eyebrow. “How much?”

“Double.”

He sighs, puts the book down after marking the page, and rises slowly, holding Ianto’s gaze. On closer look, the boy seems almost ill. He is paler than usual and there are shadows underneath his eyes. He also seems to be favouring his right side. 

Draco has never seen any injuries but he has glimpsed enough circumstantial evidence to have an idea as to why Ianto never wants to go home at the end of the day and lurks around outside Draco’s house long before they are due to meet. 

“Listen, Welsh boy. By now, mother is fully satisfied since I made an effort. If I tell her now that we’re simply not getting along, she’ll accept this and not be cross if we cease spending time together. I’m not paying you double, so you can either leave or stay on a while longer.”

Ianto’s hands ball into fists and Draco catches an aborted movement towards where he knows the boy keeps his knife. 

“I need more money,” he insists stubbornly. 

“Why?”

“None of your business, Draco.”

“Is it because of your father?” he asks, cheering triumphantly on the inside when he sees Ianto wince. “Has he realised that you have a source of income he might tap into? Does he need more money for his liquor?”

“How do you know that?” Ianto shouts, actually drawing his knife now. 

“We’ve been spending time for two weeks now, Ianto. I’m clever. I notice things. It’s not too difficult to piece two and two together and find it equals four.”

Ianto clenches and unclenches his fists several times, apparently unsure of how to proceed. Draco tries to project anything but hostility. He has no desire to suffer stab wounds. 

Finally, the boy lowers the knife and huffs brokenly. “My Mum’s sick. Dad needs the money for the medical bills but he doesn’t want to pass on the booze. He’s been taking the money you gave me. He thinks I’m stealing it.”

Draco shrugs for lack of a better reaction. He doesn’t really care. Ianto is just a Muggle and why should it be Draco’s problem if his father is an utter wanker? 

“Then get a job. You’re young, I know that you’re smart and you have the time.”

His suggestion earns him a wide-eyed stare. “Who the bloody hell would hire me?”

Draco looks him over – from the ancient denim jacket and the washed out t-shirt to the ripped jeans and worn sneakers. He arches an eyebrow. 

“Looking like that, I’m not surprised.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“Since when am I your career advisor? Since when do I even care?”

“You suggested it!” Ianto shouts hotly. “You brought it up, now back it up.”

Draco groans and flops onto his bed, thinking hard and fast. “What do I know; try one of these coffee shops. When we were in there, it was busy and the employees there don’t need any talents except remember orders, write names on cups and count the change.”

“They’ll take one look at me and send me back out.” 

Draco shouldn’t care, frankly. The right thing to say to this _Muggle_ is “I know, but that’s not my problem. Get out of my life!”. 

Which is why Draco has no excuse whatsoever for what he says instead. 

“Give me a few days and they’ll be begging to hire you.”

Ianto splutters gracelessly. “Why’d you do that?”

Good question. Why, for Merlin’s sake, did Draco offer? 

“I don’t have anything better to do. Besides, I never pass on an opportunity to prove my superiority, no matter the field.”

Ianto purses his lips. “I bet you were really popular at school.”

Draco’s face falls for the briefest of moments yet judging by how Ianto’s eyes narrow, he saw it. 

*

Draco takes Ianto into Cardiff that day. He knows a few streets filled with appropriate shops from the trips he took with Narcissa when he first arrived and navigates them efficiently. 

They have a good time and Draco enjoys himself, bickering with Ianto over which colour his jeans should have, which shirts to buy, why his denim jacket should be incinerated, and it confuses the sodding hell out of him. 

The relationship between him and Ianto is in no way sexual, which is probably what scares Draco even more: He is in the company of a Muggle and Draco feels _comfortable_. They seem to have become friends without even realising it. Or if not friends then something similar. 

“Just take the bloody tie, Ianto,” Draco orders and holds out the item in question. It took twenty minutes to convince the boy to try on a suit but now that Draco has him in it, he can’t stop with just a shirt and a jacket. 

“What would I need a tie for?”

“It completes the suit. Future employers will take you a lot more seriously dressed like this than if you were wearing jeans. Besides, what’s your problem? I’m paying for all of this after all.”

This finally wins him over and Ianto moves to put it on. He fails epically and Draco bursts into a laughing fit. Ianto glares at him for a little while but soon, he, too, starts cracking up. 

“Let me show you,” Draco tells him and moves closer, grabbing the offensive material and quite thankful the tie binding spell is relatively difficult so he had to learn to do it manually first. Within half a minute, Ianto’s outfit is finished. 

Ianto stares into the mirror, his expression somewhere between surprise and appreciation. 

“Told you,” Draco sneers. Ianto punches his arm. 

Once Draco is satisfied – which translates into three pair of trousers, ten t-shirts, just as many button-downs, two suits and five ties (since they need to match the shirt, Draco lectures Ianto) as well as a leather jacket (which isn’t real leather but still cost a lot more than Draco had intended to spend and buying it just proves how much the denim jacket revolts him) – they go for pizza. 

On their way to the train back to Swansea and Port Tennant, Draco stops to pick up a perfume for his mother. As they are leaving the boutique, Ianto shifts and hands most of his bags over to Draco. 

“I’m not your house-elf,” he scoffs, realising too late what a blunder he made. Ianto, however, doesn’t seem to hear him. A second later, Ianto is running off, one bag still in his hand and Draco can but gaze after him. 

The security guard hurrying after the boy explains everything. 

The Welsh boy finds him twenty minutes later at the train station, still panting for breath. 

“Do you often organise footraces with security personnel in shopping centres?” 

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“My mum’s birthday is coming up. I wanted to give her something nice.”

“Did you get it, at least?”

Ianto grins and produces a perfume bottle from the one bag he is still clutching. They take one look at each other and laugh.

*

Since Draco moved into the safe house, McGonagall has visited them twice. The first time was to check on how Draco had settled in, the second was to ask whether Draco could brew potions for the Order, seeing as he has ample time on his hands and even more talent in the subject. 

Draco agreed, secretly grateful for something to do, which reminds him on a regular basis that he is indeed a wizard despite his Muggle surroundings. 

The headmistress arrives for the third time on July 25th, even before Draco and his mother have started breakfast. 

“Professor?” Draco greets her when he reaches the hearth in the living room and sees who it is. Well, since she is the only one who knows of their whereabouts, it isn’t that much of a surprise. 

His usually so expressionless teacher looks sad, he realises with a shock and before she says a single word, Draco feels his stomach drop. She has bad news, it would seem. 

“Ah, good morning, Professor McGonagall.” Narcissa comes to an abrupt halt as she, too, sees the look on the woman’s face. 

“What happened?” Draco asks, not sure if he wants his question answered. 

“We should sit down,” McGonagall suggests and guides them to the sofa. She takes a deep breath and looks them straight in the eyes as she explains, “You-Know-Who made a move to break out his Death Eaters of Azkaban. The Order was prepared since we knew this was coming and we promised to help your husband and father. Yet I’m afraid…” She trails off and swallows and Draco feels his eyes burn before she even uttered the words. “I’m afraid Lucius Malfoy was killed during the attack.”

Silence falls. Draco doesn’t need to look at Narcissa to know she is battling tears. At this moment he hates their family more than ever for being so opposed to tears and any displays of emotion. Bloody hell, if there is a moment a woman is allowed to cry it is when someone tells her that her husband died. 

Draco’s own eyes burn though the tears don’t fall. “Do you know what happened?” 

“Not completely,” McGonagall admits. “The Death Eaters saw that the Order members were protecting Lucius which very likely tipped them off about our plans. Witnesses say it was You-Know-Who himself who cast the killing curse.”

Draco’s blood freezes in his veins. The Dark Lord was angry enough to kill his father. He could have captured him, punished him for his family’s insolence but instead- 

Draco rises from the sofa. Three long strides take him to the cupboard, which holds the whisky. Narcissa and he seldom drink; it is – was, Draco corrects himself – his father’s pleasure. 

He raises an eyebrow at McGonagall, who nods so Draco pours three generous glasses. 

They drink in silence. 

“I want to offer my most sincere condolences,” she says eventually, “as does the Order of the Phoenix. We did what we could to ensure his safety, yet it wasn’t enough in the end.”

Narcissa nods, the first reaction they receive from her apart from sipping the whisky. 

“When the Dark Lord wants to kill, he will get his way.” Her voice is shaking and threatening to break. Draco wishes he could hug his mother though she won’t like him doing so when company is present. “Thank you for trying.”

“Did you lose anyone?” Draco asks, noting that McGonagall’s sadness can’t stem only from losing Lucius who, after all, doesn’t mean that much to her. 

She nods. “Alastor Moody.” 

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Draco says for lack of anything better. Not that he is particularly sorry. Moody was a madman who turned him into a ferret once and dedicated his life to catch dark wizards. No wonder he met his end while on the job.

“I’m afraid there are no bodies,” McGonagall eventually tells them. At Draco’s inquisitive look, she elaborates. “After the battle, we looked for the bodies of Moody and Lucius, yet they were nowhere to be found. 

Narcissa whimpers and covers her mouth with a hand. Draco’s heart clenches. Of course there is no body, what did his mother expect? That the Dark Lord will make exceptions for traitors? 

“Thank you, Professor,” he states firmly and thankfully, McGonagall understands. 

“I will be back when I have any further news that might be important to you.”

Draco nods and walks her over to the fire where she floos off in a swirl of fire. He leans against the mantelpiece and takes a deep breath that refuses to be calming. Another whimper escapes Narcissa and Draco is by her side immediately, pulling her into a tight hug. 

There, finally, she allows herself to break down and sobs into his shoulder. 

*

Draco surveys the port without actually seeing any of the houses, the ships, the sea, let alone the sunset. 

Narcissa is in her room; has been for the past few hours and Draco just hopes she accepted the food the house-elves brought both of them. He isn’t sure whether the creatures prepared the meals without explicit orders because they wanted to make them feel better or because of some programmed inability to let their masters starve to death. 

“There you are!”

Draco turns his head towards the voice. Ianto. Of course, they had plans to meet in Swansea this afternoon. Ianto must have decided to drop by when Draco didn’t show. 

Ianto stops in his tracks a few feet from where he is sitting on the balcony. 

“What happened?”

“My father died.” Draco’s voice sounds hollow, reflecting his mental state. He has no idea how to feel about Lucius’ demise. Or rather, a small voice in his head insists, he knows exactly how he is supposed to feel: guilty. After all, if Draco had been strong enough to complete the task the Dark Lord had set him, his father would still be alive. Maybe not well or in the Dark Lord’s favour, but alive. 

“Shite. Didn’t know his job was so dangerous.”

Draco snorts humourlessly. 

“Want to talk about it?”

Draco shakes his head. 

“What’ve you been doing all day? Sitting around, brooding?”

He shrugs half-heartedly, wishing Ianto would just go away and leave Draco to drown himself in his sorrow and guilt. And to miss Harry. Draco has tried not to, yet in the state he is in, he can’t help it.

“Well, that won’t do. Come on, grab a jacket.”

Draco blinks up at the boy. “Why?”

Ianto smirks. “You, my friend, are in need of some heavy drinking.”

Draco contemplates, sighs, rises to his feet, dusts off his jeans and follows Ianto inside to get his wallet and jacket as well as to write Narcissa a note. 

A few hours later, Draco feels seriously intoxicated and tells Ianto as much. 

“Bugger intoxicated, mate, you’re bloody pissed!” 

They are in a pub that doesn’t check IDs and on their third pint, not really engaging in conversation since nothing much happened since yesterday which they spent writing Ianto’s applications for potential jobs. 

“We need shots!” Ianto decides and jumps off his stool, snatching Draco’s wallet as he goes off. 

Tequila is vile, Draco learns that night, and turns him into a pathetic mess. 

“To fathers!” Ianto toasts with their fifth – sixth? – shot. Draco grimaces even a minute after he has downed the liquid. 

“You know,” Ianto begins, “if it were my ta, I wouldn’t mind.”

“Don’t be daft. It’s your father.”

“Well, in the world of trust fund poster boys, maybe. But out there in real life, things aren’t so simple.”

“Please, your life is so uneventful I’m surprised you haven’t died of boredom yet.”

“Yeah, rich boy, because you’re having such a good time.”

They fall silent for a bit. It’s true – Ianto’s life is easy, Draco muses. No Dark Lord, no war coming, no Harry Potter right in the middle of it… Only while Draco may paint the picture that he pities Ianto for it, he actually envies him. There is no way, however, that he would ever tell the boy any of this – apart from the Secrecy Act, Draco is not the type to share his pain. 

Well, Harry doesn’t count. Potter never counts. 

“So what was your ta like?” Ianto seems genuinely interested. 

“Strict. Very keen on upholding the family tradition and our image in the public eye. We’re rich and powerful in certain circles after all.”

“You didn’t get to live much, did you?”

“What?”

“Come on,” Ianto leans back in his chair, “the first time we went to see a film your eyes almost fell out of your face. Don’t tell me you’ve ever been to a cinema before that. And boarding school? I mean you probably went to some posh little place where they get you ready for Ivy League or something. Can’t have been fun.”

Draco’s throat is suddenly very dry and he downs the rest of his beer before he snaps, “Well, at least my father never hit me.” Which is, strictly speaking, true. Draco doubts the Cruciatus Curse counts and then again, it wasn’t Lucius who administered it. He just didn’t stop it.

Still, it’s a low blow. 

“Consider yourself lucky, then,” Ianto bites back. 

Since Ianto is glaring at him, it is Draco who walks to the bar this time to refill their pints. For good measure, he orders two more shots as well. The alcohol coursing through his veins makes all his problems seem distant somehow and just for this night, Draco wants to enjoy the feeling. 

“Why does he do it?” Draco asks eventually. He would never understand why parents would do something so cruel to a child. His own family may be twisted and broken in many ways, yet they would never physically hurt him. 

Ianto shrugs, not meeting his eyes. “I guess he’s disappointed.”

“In you?”

“In life.” Ianto empties another tequila. “He wanted to be a master tailor but when mum got pregnant with my sister, he had to take a job to support them. He’s been at Debenhams ever since.”

“So what, he feels sorry for himself because he did what was right for his family and punishes you because you still have all options open?”

Ianto stares at him open-mouthed as if Draco just explained the universe to him. With an audible click, Ianto shuts his mouth again and considers his beer. 

Halfway through his drink, Draco realises that the world isn’t as stable as it used to be, so he suggests they head home. They walk in pensive silence – which is probably due to the fact that walking takes a lot of concentration at the moment.

“If you could say good-bye,” Ianto asks all of a sudden with a slur in his voice, “what would you tell him?” 

“Nothing he’d like to hear.” Draco sways and would have fallen if Ianto hadn’t kept him upright. 

The conversation might have continued if not for the sudden wave of nausea that hits Draco and chases him off to a bush at the side of the road. He vomits until it feels like his stomach is trying to digest itself and a hand is rubbing circles into his shoulder. 

“Deep breaths, Draco,” Ianto tells him, then offers him a chewing gum. 

“I hate you,” he states yet takes the gum anyway.

*

Draco awakes the following day to a murderous headache that feels like a band of Death Eaters are having a Cruciatus Curse practise session inside his skull. He sits up groggily and tries to stretch but instead groans when he discovers that his entire body hurts. 

Hogwarts did not prepare him for the Muggle art of drinking. 

“Good morning, Master Draco,” Liope quips from somewhere near his feet. Draco glances down and could have hugged the elf since she is carrying a tall glass of water as well as a pain potion. 

He swallows both the water and the potion and waves to dismiss Liope, yet she hesitates. 

“What is it?”

“Master Draco’s Muggle friend is sleeping on the sofa downstairs. Liope did not wake him up because Masters told us not to interact with Muggles. But will you want Liope to prepare the Muggle friend breakfast as well?”

Ianto is on their sofa? Draco doesn’t remember if he invited the boy to stay or if Ianto simply decided he was too drunk to walk home. 

“Prepare us both something and leave it in the kitchen. Bring mother something up as well, will you?”

Liope bows deeply and disappears into the hallway. 

*

Narcissa enters the kitchen when Ianto and Draco are halfway through he deliciously greasy plates of bacon and eggs. Her eyes narrow when she catches sight of them and probably of how Draco looks. 

“Draco, what happened to you?”

He points a finger at Ianto. “Tequila.”

“He needed it,” Ianto justifies their actions. Draco is surprised that his mother simply accepts this. Hangovers have never been condoned in the Malfoy household. Apparently, there is a first time for everything. 

“Ianto,” Narcissa says, startling both of them, “for the future, please note that we have a fully equipped guest room. There is no need for you to sleep on the sofa.”

The boy gapes unattractively for a few seconds until Draco takes pity on him. 

“I think what you’re trying to think of is, ‘thank you, Mrs Mallory’.”

“Thank you, Mrs Mallory.” 

“Not at all.” 

*

Something changes between Ianto and Draco after that morning and for the love of Merlin, Draco can’t even delude himself anymore about the fact that the Muggle teenager and he have become friends. 

Ianto helps him select a birthday present for Harry, Draco actively invites Ianto over where they spend the nights watching TV or reading books (since apparently, Ianto spends most of the money he manages to salvage from his father on books and isn’t that oh-so Granger of him) and somewhere in between, Draco stops thinking of him as Muggle boy and refers to him as Ianto. 

If he wanted to be cynical, Draco would say it is for the better that his father isn’t alive anymore to bear witness to this troublesome turn of events. 

Yet Draco choses not to think about his father too much, afraid that his guilt will crush him even before Harry’s absence will. 

Somehow, spending time with Ianto takes Draco’s mind off his troubles so if being friends with a Muggle is what it takes for him to escape them, so be it. 

*

On his birthday, Harry is woken none too gently by Sirius and Remus serenading him awake in a rather awful rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’. Well, it is the Celestina Warbeck version, so the awfulness is a given, Harry muses. Actually, Sirius can sing rather well. 

“Happy Birthday, Harry!” his godfather cheers and pulls him into a hug that Harry returns heartily once he is a tad more awake. 

“Happy seventeenth,” Remus chimes in, hugging him as well. 

“Come on, Kreacher has decided to cook for an army this morning, let’s go eat.”

After hurriedly putting on some more clothes, Harry follows them downstairs where Hermione pulls him close and kisses him on the cheek. 

Instead of unwrapping presents, Harry opts to eat first since Kreacher is watching him from a corner, eager to see if he did well (it is astonishing how much the house-elf’s demeanour changed ever since Sirius gave him Regulus’ locket). 

When he finally tears open the first parcel, he discovers a new Sneakoscope, curtsey of Hermione. Remus got him exclusive books – “They’re not really legal, so don’t broadcast it!” and Sirius’s present is a golden coin. 

“I made it myself,” his godfather explains. “I took the idea from the DA coins you told me about, brilliant as ever, Hermione, by the way,” he winks at her, making her chuckle, “and refined it a little. I have the other coin and we can send messages, but the thing is that is only reacts to you and no one else. Once you activate it, no one but you can see it. Well, I can integrate Hermione into the spell, so that she could send a message should you … be indisposed at the moment…” Sirius grimaces at the thought and Harry realises Sirius found a way for them to communicate once Hermione and he are on the hunt for Horcruxes. 

“Anyway, they are perfectly secure, undetectable and invisible to anyone that isn’t the owner. I thought it might come in handy and it’s a bit more practical than the mirror I gave you before.”

“This is brilliant!” Harry shouts and throws himself at his godfather. 

There is one card and one present left on the table. Flipping the parchment over, Harry sees Molly’s writing, wishing him a happy birthday and promising him gifts when he comes to the Burrow that evening for dinner (the dinner she hasn’t let herself be talked out of, even if Bill’s and Fleur’s wedding is tomorrow). 

Harry’s heart skips a beat as he realises whom the last parcel has to be from. Actually, the green – and surprisingly Muggle – wrapping should have given it away. 

“Is that from…?” Hermione dares. 

“I think so.”

Harry is slightly confused when he peels away cello tape instead of spellotape and inside finds a cardboard box sealed in the same fashion. 

“Are you sure this is from Malfoy?” Hermione pokes the wrapping Harry discarded with a finger. 

“Whom else could it be from?” 

Inside the box, Harry discovers a smaller parcel wrapped in the same green paper as well as an honest-to-Merlin post card. It’s one of these funny cards one can buy everywhere in Britain which means Draco probably chose it so no one can trace it back to a particular location. 

_Happy Birthday!_ , the card reads in familiar script. And did Draco use a biro?

_Would love to say more if not for a ‘no contact’ rule. Mother and I are as well as can be expected. I hope you can enjoy your coming of age before you enter a life in danger._

Then, there are a few words crossed out multiple times which Harry can’t decipher, yet the last sentence, squeezed onto the bottom of the card, remains legible. 

_Damn it – I miss you._

Harry swallows around the lump in his throat and moves onto the parcel, which turns out to be a pouch the size of a honeydew melon. It’s bigger on the inside, just like the bag Hermione has made for them. 

Draco, as it would seem, made him a survival kit. There is a large supply of healing and pain potions neatly labelled in Draco’s handwriting, magical bandages and plasters, magical flares or torches, a Muggle Swiss Army Knife, another fixed blade knife which seems to be magical and two water bottles with a note, saying “ _Self-refilling when empty. Charm will last six to eight months._ ”

“Blimey,” Sirius breathes out as he surveys the contents. “I guess that boy really wants you to survive.”

*

They spend the day playing Quidditch on a remote field with enough wards around them to stop anyone, Muggle or wizard alike, from spotting them, which is the only way they can spend time outside not only because of Sirius but also because Remus warned them that Voldemort is gaining more and more supporters. Gone are the times when they could wander down Diagon Alley and buy Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes.

That evening at the Burrow, Harry eventually finds out what exactly Draco meant when he wrote he and his mother are as well as can be expected. 

“Killed? By whom?” Hermione asks after the topic falls on the mass breakout of Azkaban, which the Ministry is still keeping quiet apparently. 

“You-Know-Who himself,” Kingsley says gravely. “We didn’t see who killed Moody.”

“What about a funeral?” George asks. 

Kingsley shakes his head. “There was no body to be found.”

Harry stares at his new watch, desperately wishing he could contact Draco but sending Hedwig to the safe house is far too dangerous. 

Dinner is an amiable affair despite the sad news; Ron doesn’t snap at him (didn’t get Harry a present either), the food is good, Mrs Weasley and Sirius get along for a change and the impending war shifts into the background for a few hours at least. 

Too bad Scrimgeour had to drop by near the end, handing over the snitch, a children’s book and a Deluminator. Ron and Harry glare at each other, both fully aware of the implication. 

Dumbledore thought Ron would accompany them. Well, they have wands. They don’t need Deluminators. Seeing Ron surrounded by his family, laughing with Fred and George, having his hair ruffled by his mother, Harry almost envies him. 

*

Harry lays awake a long time that night, wondering about the wedding, worrying about retrieving the locket, about Sirius, Remus, the future in general. Draco. 

Thinking of Draco always helps better his mood and allows him to drift off to sleep, Harry found. Tonight it is the memory of Draco’s birthday, not even two weeks before Dumbledore died. 

Finding a present for his boyfriend that was neither too corny nor too impersonal had been a challenge….

*

_June 5th, 1997_

Harry contemplates removing his clothes, waiting for Draco naked in the broom shed near the Quidditch pitch yet he is too self-conscious in the end. He merely unfolds the blankets on the ground, performs a heating spell, positions the long, rectangular parcel in the middle of the blankets and sits down behind it, facing the door. 

Harry spent long hours wondering what he should get Draco for his birthday and eventually had the perfect idea. He sent Draco a birthday card with nothing more than, “ _Collect your present after practise in the shed today_ ”, which earned him a speculatively raised eyebrow. 

Slytherin practise is about to end and Harry’s attention refocuses on the door. Sure enough, after ample time has passed for the team to clear out, there is movement in front of the door and someone pushes it open. 

Draco is no longer in his Quidditch gear and freshly showered, Harry notices. Grey eyes darken as they fall upon the sight of Harry on the floor. 

“Innovative, Potter.” Draco smirks and kneels down on the carpet. “Is this my only present?”

“Well, you’ll get to use it, if you want,” Harry purrs and watches as his boyfriend unties the ribbon and lifts the lid of the box, revealing a work of art and dragon hide.

Draco lets out an appreciative breath. “It’s beautiful…” He picks the whip up and caresses the deep green tails while the other hand grips the black hilt. Suddenly, Draco’s head snaps up. “How did you manage to get a whip into school? This can’t be on Filch’s list of approved items?”

Harry chuckles. “I asked my godfather to send it covertly.”

“And he agreed?” 

“Sirius may not approve of you but he’s fully supportive of experimenting in bed.”

“Good.” Draco rises from the blanket and puts the box aside. “So, are you saying you’re willing to help me break it in?”

Harry holds Draco’s gaze, licking his lips deliberately. “Just say where you want me.”

He notes with satisfaction how the blond swallows, then looks around “Soundproof?” Harry nods. “I’ll lock the door. You’re going to undress.”

The authoritative tone of Draco’s voice sends a shiver down Harry’s spine and he hurriedly removes everything until he is stark naked. 

“Turn around, spread your legs.”

Harry complies and doesn’t startle when soft ropes wind themselves around his ankles and wrists, pulling his arms up until he can’t move. He feels his cock filling as Draco simply lets him stand there, exposed and at his mercy. 

Suddenly, there are hands on his back, rubbing him down. “I’ll make you come so hard, Harry,” Draco whispers in his ear, “without even a hand on your cock. And then, you’re going to suck me off. Understood?”

“Yes, Draco.” Another shiver chases down Harry’s body as the warmth of Draco’s body withdraws and he hears an experimental crack of the whip. 

Draco starts off slowly, with soft hits across his back, buttocks and thighs, gaining a feel for the whip and not quite taking the edge off but Harry doesn’t need to wait long. The first strong welt makes him yelp and strain against the ropes which just don’t give. His cock twitches as the second blow lands low on his arse and he can’t escape, immobilised. 

“You should see your skin, all angry and red,” Draco says a few strokes later. “But not red enough.”

He increases the strength behind the blows and Harry’s breath hitches every time the pain blossoms across his body, setting his nerve endings on fire and pumping more blood into his cock until he looses count of how often Draco hit him and his glans is a deep purple. 

A brief pause and suddenly, the ropes shift, giving Harry no choice but to follow their pull. They turn him around, facing Draco who is wearing nothing save a shirt and trousers. His eyes are dark and his cheeks flushed. Harry can see the outlines of his straining erection underneath the fabric of his pants. 

“Let’s see what it takes to make you come,” he purrs and flings the whip with a grace that leaves Harry breathless. Well, the hit on his chest might have something to do with that as well. 

Another one hits his abdominal muscles, then his thighs. Working his way back up, Draco steps closer and guides the dragon hide tails over Harry’s cock which is rock hard and leaking. The leather is the perfect blend of soft and rough, a mind-blowing sensation on his erection. Harry groans and Draco repeats the movement, then places a welt across his right thigh in close proximity to his groin. 

Draco alternates between a lash and caressing his cock and Harry tries the ropes that will never give, gasps and moans in a mess of pain and pleasure until he shudders apart under Draco’s administrations, shooting hard, streaking the blanket with his come. 

He feels the restraints loosen and falls to his knees in front of Draco, remembering his order from a lifetime ago. His knees protest but all Harry cares about at this moment is freeing Draco’s erection. 

He strokes it with his hand while his tongue traces the inside of Draco’s thigh until he reaches his balls and gently sucks each of them into his mouth. His tongue maps the underside of the shaft, licks across the slit tasting the bitter precome before he finally wraps his lips around the head of Draco’s cock. 

Draco’s orders were to suck him off so Harry changes his approach. Where usually he would try to relax his jaw, take Draco deeper and deeper until all there is is the blond fucking his mouth, Harry sucks, hollowing his cheeks. Soon, Draco’s knees are buckling so Harry brings his hands to his hips to steady him, never breaking his rhythm, his mouth sliding up and down Draco’s length. 

Draco must have been close already for Harry’s jaw hasn’t even begun to ache when he feels a hand in his hair. Harry pulls back, releasing Draco’s erection and wrapping a fist around it instead. He wanks him hard and fast, aiming the glans at his face, knowing this will be what tips Draco over the edge. 

They both collapse on the blanket and Harry finally stretches his knees. 

“Did you bring the salve?” Draco murmurs into Harry’s neck. 

“Yes, over there.” He points half-heartedly though it must have been enough for short moments later; Draco turns him onto his stomach and begins working the magic salve into the irritated skin on his back. Draco makes him sit up and lean back into him as he does the same for Harry’s torso, then pulls him as close as possible, trailing kissing along his neck. 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re very welcome.” 

“Too bad I can hardly tell anyone about the best present I got this year… Although-“

“Don’t you dare!” Harry protests, joining into the laughter a moment later when he realises Draco only meant it as a joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out I can't go too long without an adequate fix of porn :) I hoped you liked it! Comments make me happy, btw :) (as do Kudos but I guess that's kind of obvious^^)


	3. Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ministry falls at Bill’s and Fleur’s wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few pieces of dialogue directly taken from DH. And British TV in ‘97? Nothing on except Xena…. 
> 
> Also in this chapter: blatant quoting of canon ;)

_I've said it so many times_  
_I would change my ways_  
_No, never mind_  
_God knows I've tried_

_\- “Call me”, Shinedown_

*

Head swimming after his conversations with Krum, Elphias Doge and Aunt Muriel, Harry stares off into space until Hermione draws up a chair next to him. 

“I simply can’t dance anymore,” she pants, slipping off a shoe and rubbing the sole of her foot. 

Unsurprisingly, Harry catches Ron watching them like he has been all night. Harry can’t blame him – even as a gay wizard he has to admit Hermione looks lovely tonight. 

“It’s a bit odd, I’ve just seen Viktor storming away from Luna’s father, it looked like they’d been arguing-“ she pauses, looking at Harry more closely. “Harry, are you okay?”

Harry opens his mouth to reply without really know what he wants to say when suddenly, a silver lynx appears in the middle of the dance floor. Every head in the vicinity turns towards it, couples freezing mid-dance. 

Then the Patronus’ mouth opens and it says in the loud, deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

“ _The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming._ ”

All of a sudden time appears to have stopped yet at the same moment, everything seems to be happening at once – Hermione puts her shoe back on and jumps up from her chair, Harry following suit. Light whizzes over their heads as they scan their surroundings, seeing how the guests are running away in a blend of white light and dark smoke. 

“Death Eaters!” Harry shouts at Hermione and sees her eyes widen. She grabs his hand and they turn on the spot, colour whirling around them until the world comes into focus again on the doorstep to Grimmauld Place. 

They positively fall through the door and Sirius is there, hugging Harry so tight he has to gasp for air. 

“What happened?” Sirius asks, pulling Hermione into his arms briefly. 

“Kingsley’s Patronus appeared,” Harry explains, “he said the Ministry has fallen, Scrimgeour is dead and that ‘they are coming’. He meant Death Eaters.”

“Damn, of course he meant Death Eaters!” Sirius runs a hand through his hair, closing his eyes. “Do you know anything about the others? Did they escape?” Harry can see the unvoiced question about Remus burning behind his godfather’s eyes.

Unfortunately, all he can do is shrug. 

“Well,” Sirius sighs, “let’s prepare the dining room. Its protocol that the Order comes here to regroup after something like this happens. We’ll need more chairs. And tea. Hell, we’ll need something stronger. Kreacher!”

Hermione and Harry exchange tense glances before they hurry after him. 

*

Soon after the dining room is ready, the first members of the Order arrive and within fifteen minutes, the room is packed. 

Harry leans against the wall next to Sirius who has a possessive arm slung around Remus’ waist. Harry’s thoughts briefly flash to Draco yet he stifles the memories. He needs to focus now; the future of the world as they know it is on the line. 

It seems that everyone from the Order is there – aside from Sirius, Remus, Hermione and Harry himself the entire Weasley family including Fleur, Dedalus, Tonks, her mother Andromeda as well as Lee Jordan who probably followed Fred and George into the Order and several teachers. 

The door opens abruptly and Kingsley enters, bleeding from a wound at his temple. 

“Are you alright, Kingsley?” McGonagall asks immediately. 

“You should see the Death Eater,” the Auror jokes yet his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, Harry finds. 

“So it’s true? Voldemort has taken over?” Sirius voices what everyone has been thinking, his grip on Remus’ waist tightening. 

Kingsley nods, sighing gravely. “He killed Scrimgeour personally, though almost no one witnessed it. I’ve just visited the Muggle Prime Minister to warn him about what is happening on our side and that I’ll need to change my appearance if I am to guard him in the future.”

“But would Voldemort kill him? Wouldn’t that be a tad too obvious?” Harry throws in, frankly a little shocked. 

“He might, Harry. I can’t imagine what a terrorist attack on their PM would do to the Muggle community, adding to the multiple accidents, catastrophes and murder sprees they’ve been dealing with these past months.”

“So you’ll stay on his security detail?” Sirius’ eyes are narrowed and Harry can see the worry in his eyes. 

“I will. But we need to talk about how the Order will survive. We are at war; everyone needs to be aware of this.”

Kinglsey’s words send a chill down Harry’s spine. 

“Well,” McGonagall speaks up, “we need to reinstate new headquarters. The risk of Snape finding a way to break in here is too great.”

“Our cottage, then,” Bill throws in and Harry wonders how long the Order has been preparing for this exact scenario. 

“Let me guess,” Sirius snaps, “I’m to remain here?”

“It would be for the best,” McGonagall answer tentatively. “We can’t abandon the house and out there you are too much at risk, Sirius.”

His godfather opens his mouth, poised to argue but Remus’ hand on his shoulder calms him down enough that McGonagall can continue without interruption. 

“Which leaves the question of Hogwarts. Dumbledore wanted the school to stay open, yet frankly, I’m not so sure.”

“But they can’t do too much to us, Minerva,” Flitwick argues. “The Ministry doesn’t have that much influence!”

“Yes, and I’m sure most students want to return! It’s still the safest place to be,” Hermione says hotly. “What are the families supposed to do? Send them to Muggle schools? You-Know-Who will target those first, then.”

The argument continues for a few more minutes but to Harry’s great relief, McGonagall acquiesces in the end and Hogwarts will reopen in the fall. 

“So far, so good.” Kingsley’s eyes roam the room until they land on Harry. “Which leaves the question of what we are going to do with you, Harry.”

Harry clears his throat, suddenly nervous as every head turns in his direction. “I won’t be returning to Hogwarts.”

“Very wise, Harry.”

“Dumbledore gave me a job to do.”

“What job?!” Molly cries, a little louder than she probably intended to. Her eyes dart back and forth between Harry, Hermione and Ron. 

“I can’t tell anyone.”

Before Molly can protest, Kingsley has begun to speak. “Is there anything we can do to help? Do you need anything?”

“We have everything we need.” Harry’s eyes meet Ron defiantly yet his former best friend says nothing. The twins aren’t as silent. 

“Oi, what do you mean by ‘we’?”

“I’m coming with him,” Hermione states simply. Fred and George glance at their brother who remains silent. 

Sirius coughs, catching everyone’s attention. “So now that’s settled, we need to start building a resistance, don’t we? I’d love to help, but seeing as I’m a prisoner once again, I don’t see what I can do.”

“You can stay safe and alive,” Remus snaps. 

“I can fight! I’ve fought before!”

“You’ll just run into danger and where will that leave the rest of us when you’re dead-“

“Stop it!” Harry shouts, successfully silencing both his godfather and his lover. “Sirius, Remus is right. You need to stay out of this war for as long as possible. Your time will come. But no unnecessary risks, alright?”

Sirius holds Harry’s gaze defiantly for a moment but eventually he backs down. 

“Hey,” Lee Jorden suddenly tosses in. “We could create a radio programme! Which will be inaccessible unless you have the password.”

“Brilliant!” Fred quips. 

“Everyone on the show needs code names,“ George adds almost at the same time as Fred insist, “We need to change location with every new broadcast!”

“Great,” Lee beams, “now all we need is a cool name!”

Amazed, Harry watches as the three of them exchange glances, look over at him, back at each other, and then exclaim simultaneously, “Potterwatch!”

Harry isn’t quite sure whether he should be flattered or embarrassed. Everyone else, however, seems to think the idea is hilarious so he, too, joins the laughter. 

*

After everyone has left, having formulated more strategies to keep those safe who need it the most, Sirius, Remus, Hermione and Harry find themselves in front of the fire in the ground floor living room. Sirius disappeared into the cellar for ten minutes and emerged with a bottle of expensive and old looking Firewhiskey, which they are now drinking. 

“So, Harry, what are you two going to do now?” Remus asks, finishing his first glass and holding it out for Sirius for a refill. 

“Prepare ourselves,” he tells him, hoping to be able to keep his explanations as vaguely as possible. “We need to get into the Ministry, we’ll watch the place to come up with a plan. And we’ll continue practising spells, I guess.”

He looks over at Hermione who nods in agreement. “Defence, offense, first aid. Everything that might come in handy.”

“Will you return after you found what you wanted at the Ministry?”

Harry nods, glad to see his godfather smile. “I promise.”

*

Draco plans on spending the first morning in August brewing since he won’t be seeing Ianto until later that afternoon when the boy’s shift ends. Indeed, Ianto Jones is the newest employee at a local coffee shop in Swansea. It takes him a while to get there despite the bike he owns and the pay is abysmal (still better than at Starbucks, Ianto would say), yet Draco has never seen his friend so happy. 

Liope startles him when she asks him to come down. “Your presence is required, young master.”

When he reaches the living room, Narcissa and McGonagall are already drinking tea. Draco takes a seat in the chair and pours himself a cup. 

“I’m afraid I bring more bad news,” the headmistress says. “The Ministry is no longer free. It appears that You-Know-How has taken over and killed Scrimgeour.”

Draco’s eyes narrow and he sets the cup down, all thoughts of tea forgotten. 

“Before you ask, Mr Malfoy, Harry is perfectly safe.” 

A little bit of the tension in Draco’s shoulders dissipates yet he still worries. Until now, the war has been something looming over them at the horizon – now it has become real. 

“It is imperative, Mr Malfoy, that you keep a very low profile from now on. If you must go out, please alter your appearance.” 

Draco nods before the implications of her demand fully register so when they do, he clears his throat, looking for the least awkward way to explain his situation. 

“What is it?”

“Professor, what about… I seem to have made a friend. If all of a sudden I can’t go outside or have to change my appearance – what will I tell him?”

McGonagall’s eyes turn sharp, her mouth thinning. “Are you suggesting you want to tell this friend about your magic? You can’t violate the Statute of Secrecy, Mr Malfoy! Dye your hair and everything should be fine as long as you don’t call attention to yourself.”

“Dye?!” Draco shouts, incredulous, a hand moving up to touch his hair. “What do you mean, dye?!”

“Colour it. There are Muggle means to do it as well.” Not for the first time when dealing with the witch, Draco wonders if her tight-lipped exterior is just a farce and if she is secretly laughing inside. 

His shoulders sag in defeat and he tunes out the women’s talking as he desperately tries to figure out what sort of colour would suit him. 

*

The solution to all his problems – at least his Ianto-related ones – comes to him via Muggle telly. 

“How was your first day at work?” Draco asks as he opens the door for his best friend around suppertime. Ianto eating with them has also become a regular occurrence, Draco notes. 

“Exhausting! Who needs so many different coffees?”

“One day you’ll be a grand coffee snob and curse anyone who drinks instant.” 

Ianto snorts. “Yeah, right.” 

They spend the meal watching TV like always, with Ianto talking incessantly about his first day, his co-workers and knowing he would receive a pay check at the end of the month. Ianto keeps up his monologue until they are back in Draco’s room. 

“… and then she tries to make it work and it’s perfectly functional! It’s almost as if it was hexed!”

“Why would anyone hex a coffee machine so it would only work for your colleagues and not you?”

“Are you saying I’m too daft to operate a coffee maker?”

“I’m saying you need practise, Ianto.”

The boy chuckles and punches Draco’s arm. “So, what’s wrong? You look like someone killed your puppy.”

“I don’t have a puppy,” Draco replies, bewildered. 

Ianto rolls his eyes. “Of course you don’t, don’t be daft. It’s an expression. So what’s going on?”

Draco sighs, hoping he will pull off his made up story well enough for Ianto to believe him. “I need to tell you something.”

“Need I be worried?”

“Shut up and listen, Jones.”

“Then get to the bloody point, Mallory!” 

The wrong surname is enough to sober Draco up in that moment. He takes a deep breath. “Something has happened which is related to my father’s death. I can’t really go out anymore if I don’t change my appearance so that I won’t be recognised. Just so you know. I need to keep a low profile, so no more shop-lifting, alright?”

Ianto blinks at him. “Are you on the run from the mob or something?”

Draco shrugs. “Witness protection. Can’t tell you more.” He watches as Ianto digests the news and it is proof for how smart the boy truly is that he doesn’t ask questions Draco wouldn’t have been able to answer. 

“Very well, then. It seems you are in need of a new hair colour.”

Draco doesn’t know whether to groan or laugh and ends up emitting the strangest of sounds, which has both of them in stiches for the following five minutes. 

Then, however, they do come up with a plan. 

The next day after work, Ianto procures dye for Draco. Long moments of contemplation have led them to decide on a light brown. After applying, letting it set and finally sluicing out, Draco considers himself in the mirror. 

“Feels weird,” he comments but Ianto just shrugs.

“It’s not too bad. Now, I’m thinking green contact lenses.”

A picture of Harry’s eyes immediately flashes before Draco’s mental eye and he nods, a lump in his throat all of a sudden. “Sure.”

“Good, ‘cause I only bought green ones.”

“Wanker.”

“Tosser.” 

Draco shakes his head with a smile, shaking his hair and allowing it to fall into his face. “I think I can live with it.”

“Not like you have another choice.” 

“Come on, let’s watch Xena.” 

They rush out of the bathroom and into the first-floor living room to switch on the TV. 

*

Draco eventually becomes used to his new look while his mother colours her long blond hair some sort of dirty blond and alters the cut which takes about ten years off her. 

“Oh, stop flattering me,” she tells him when he says as much. 

On the 18th, Draco explicitly invites Ianto over to stay the night, seeing as the following morning is Ianto’s seventeenth birthday (which unfortunately falls on a Tuesday). He tells the house-elves to prepare an exquisite breakfast with great coffee – because already Ianto has been complaining on occasion about the taste of their usual brew – and sets up his present on the balcony. 

“Happy Birthday, Ianto!” Draco cheers as he opens the door after they’ve devoured their plates. 

Ianto stares in awe at the shining new bicycle leaning against the fence. 

“Do you like it? Or is it hideous? I knew I should have gone with black instead of the blue…” Draco rambles on when his best friend remains silent. 

Then he sees a tear glisten in Ianto’s eye and shifts uncomfortably. “What is it?”

Without warning, Ianto pulls him into a hug that lasts a full minute with Draco patting Ianto’s back awkwardly. The boy pulls away with a sigh, wiping the tear away. 

“Sorry. It’s just I’ve never… This is the best gift anyone ever gave to me.”

Draco smiles back weakly, pity battling with anger at Ianto’s family inside his chest, and finally settles on, “Well, of course! It’s from me.” 

It does the trick and makes Ianto laugh. 

“Come on, I’ll accompany you to work!” 

“You have a bike?”

“Bought one when I got yours.”

“I didn’t know you could ride.”

 _Well, not in this context, I couldn’t_ , Draco thinks yet bites his tongue. He shrugs in a way that doesn’t reveal he spent the past week teaching himself how to ride a Muggle bike. He has never heard his mother laugh as much as during these hard hours. 

*

It becomes another thing they do, aside from Ianto spending basically every other night or them eating dinner in front of the telly: Every morning when Ianto has to work, Draco takes his bike and meets him at a junction and goes with him to the coffee shop where Draco will taste his way through their menu one drink at a time, then bike home and return during the last half hour of Ianto’s shift. 

The Saturday after Ianto’s birthday, Draco witnesses how his best friend loses every singe brain cell he has ever possessed as a young woman – a girl, really, can’t be older then them – comes out from the back. She is wearing an apron and is covered in flour, which leads Draco to the conclusion that she is the baker. 

Ianto, usually rather confident behind the counter and handling the (surprisingly large amount of) equipment expertly, starts dropping things, moving his hands about awkwardly, his eyes glued to the girl. 

“I need to fetch an order for the shop from the post office,” she tells him and the rag Ianto used to wipe down the counter glides to the floor when he immediately straightens. 

“Sure! Anything I need to keep an eye on?”

“Yeah, I have a batch of scones in the oven, they’ll be done in ten minutes, just take them out when the timer rings, okay?”

“Of course!”

The girl disappears and Draco has to snap his fingers in front of Ianto’s face several times before the boy deems him worthy of his attention. 

Draco raises an eyebrow and watches Ianto blush. 

“That was Delilah. She’s the owner’s daughter.”

“You seem to think she’s quite fit.”

“Well, look at her!”

Draco chuckles. “You, my friend, definitely need help.”

“With what?”

“Oh I’m sorry. Is standing there, staring at a bird like a dog wagging its tail the preferred method of flirting nowadays?” Draco smirks. “Or do you already have her number? Did you already ask her out?” 

Ianto shakes his head, mouth hanging slightly open. 

“Thought as much. We’ll need to work on your act, mister. Believe me, with my assistance, you’ll have won her over in no time,” he drawls, hoping the arrogance in his voice will mask the cordial offer beneath.

“You’ll do that for me?” Well, no such luck, then. 

“After seeing your sad display just now? I’m doing humanity a service…” Draco doesn’t need to mention that he can empathise. Having spent years nurturing his crush on Harry without doing anything about it, he is glad he can help someone suffering a similar fate. For if Ianto doesn’t act, he will spend every working day staring longingly after this Delilah while other blokes take her out on dates. 

“So, what’s your advice?” Ianto asks later that night from his spot on the sofa while Draco is pacing in the space between the sofa and the bed. 

“Don’t just stare at her. You can take your eyes off her for a few seconds, she won’t disappear. Help her with things, don’t wait for her to ask you, alright?”

“When?”

“I don’t know, you receive shipments, don’t you? You know when, and if you don’t, find out when they come in. Be there to help with the heavy lifting. It’ll make a good impression. Hold the door open for her whenever you can.”

“That’s for old blokes, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. She won’t expect it and feel special because you’re doing what no bloke has done before.”

“Valid point. Continue.” Ianto motions with his hand accordingly, causing Draco to roll his eyes again. 

“Pay her compliments.”

“As in…?”

“Damned if I know… What about, ‘Oh, Delilah, you look great today, even though you’re all dirty from baking all morning.’ Or tell her you like her earrings, necklace, whatever. You like her hair. She’s especially beautiful today.”

“I can’t compliment her jewellery, she’ll think I’m a fag!”

“She won’t,” Draco soothes him, trying to ignore the pang in his chest when he hears the horror in Ianto’s voice. Perhaps Ianto only doesn’t like being thought of as queer by an attractive girl. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind Draco being into blokes. “because on Sunday, you will give her a flower and ask her out on a date.”

“Are you sure this is going to work?”

“Trust me.”

* 

Without Draco’s help, Ianto would have been utterly lost. Yet since he has Draco on his side – and since the boy actually listens, thank Merlin – the plan works perfectly. 

“She said yes!” Ianto shouts when he storms into Draco’s room on Sunday in the late afternoon, vibrating with energy. “I’m meeting her for dinner and a movie tonight!”

Draco smiles in satisfaction and drags the boy along into the guest room to select something to wear for the date.

*

Harry closes the book on defensive spells with a snap that echoes through the otherwise empty library. They have been preparing, watching the Ministry in turn to find a possible angle against Umbridge and Harry’s head is spinning. 

Hermione is wanted for questioning regarding her blood status, which is why she has Harry’s Cloak with her right now as she watches the Ministry workers leave the building after another day of changing policy for the worst. 

The headline above his own photo, “ _WANTED FOR QUESTIONING ABOUT THE DEATH OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE_ ” flashed before his mind’s eye accompanied by Hermione’s outraged, “So Death Eaters have taken over the Daily Prophet, too?”

Above all, attendance to Hogwarts is now compulsory, as well as giving one’s blood status before being allowed visit the school and Harry feels the rage rise in his chest again, so he rises from the chair and steps away from the ancient book or he will end up flinging it across the room. 

“I know, Harry. It’s bad.” 

Harry turns around to find Remus leaning against a shelf, a thin wound on his cheeks from when a curse hit him a few days ago. Death Eaters were attacking a Muggle village and the Order rushed to their rescue. Well, the Order, save Harry, Hermione and Sirius. 

“I just wish we could act faster.”

Remus walks over and stands next to him in front of the inactive fireplace. 

“What is your mission, Harry?”

Harry’s heart drops a little. Until now, Remus has been keeping quiet, ignoring the giant lack of knowledge regarding Harry’s task separating him from the rest of the residents of Grimmauld Place. 

“I can’t, Remus. I’m sorry. If Dumbledore didn’t tell you, I don’t think I can.”

“Then why did you tell Sirius?”

“You know that’s different.” Harry doesn’t need to spell out his godfather is his only remaining relative. 

Remus inhales deeply. “But I still might be of some use to you. You know what I am and what I can do. I could come with you to provide protection. There would be no need to tell me exactly what you are up to.”

Harry blinks at the man, stunned into silence. It is a tempting offer, a werewolf to accompany them. However…

“What about Sirius?”

“He’d want you to be safe above all things.”

“Of course, and that’s why he’ll tell you it’s alright to come with me. But don’t you think that after years apart, he’d want to be with you?”

“Harry, I’m sure James would have wanted me to stick with you.”

“Well,” he says slowly, “I’m not. I’m sure my father would have wanted his best friends to be happy in a time of war, not risk losing each other again.”

“You need protection-“

“Perhaps,” Harry interrupts him, voice rising, “but I also need to know that Sirius is alright and not going mad alone in this house! I need to know that there’s a little bit of happiness in this world! The war is keeping enough people apart; you don’t need to add to it.”

He meets Remus’ eyes, his jaw set. A moment passes between them and Harry is sure they are both thinking of that night in Harry’s third year when Padfoot and Moony reunited and had to part again, of how Harry still keeps Draco’s note from his birthday on his night table and how happy Sirius looks when they all gather around the dinner table for a meal. 

“Alright. It’s your decision,” Remus grinds out through gritted teeth, yet his tone is not as vicious as Harry has feared it would be. 

*

On the morning of September 1st, Harry wakes up earlier than usual and decides to take over Hermione’s shift shadowing the Ministry. He leaves a note on the kitchen table and asks Kreacher to make sure Hermione sees it. 

“Of course, Master Harry,” the elf says sincerely and takes away his breakfast dishes.

He returns incredibly pissed off and throws the Daily Prophet he managed to pinch from someone’s bag onto the table on top of the plans and hand-drawn maps littering the living room table, causing Sirius and Hermione to jump. 

“What’s happened?” Hermione asks before she glimpses the headline, “ _SEVERUS SNAPE CONFIRMED AS HOGWARTS HEADMASTER_ ”.

“That bastard!” Sirius shouts and Hermione snatches the paper from the table, reading the article out loud. 

“‘ _Severus Snape, long-standing Potions master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was today appointed Headmaster in the most important of several staffing changes at the ancient school. Following the resignation of the previous Muggle Studies teacher, Alecto Carrow will take over the post while her brother, Amycus, fills the position as DADA professor. “I welcome the opportunity to uphold our finest wizarding traditions and values -_ “’ Like committing murder and cutting off people’s ears, I suppose! Snape, Headmaster! Snape in Dumbledore’s study – Merlin’s pants!” she shrieks, discarding the newspaper and hurrying from the room. “I’ll be back in a minute!”

Sirius and Harry exchange looks. 

“‘Merlin’s pant’s’? She must be upset,” Sirius smirks. “But the teachers won’t stand for this. Who are these Carrows anyway?”

“Death Eaters.” When his godfather raises an eyebrow, Harry explains, “There were pictures inside. They were at the top of the Tower when Snape killed Dumbledore, so it’s all friends together,” Harry goes on bitterly. “I can’t see that the other teachers have any choice but to stay. If the Ministry and Voldemort are behind Snape, it’ll be a choice between staying and teaching, or a nice few years in Azkaban – and that’s if they’re lucky. I reckon they’ll stay to protect the students.”

“I think you’re right,” Sirius agrees just as Kreacher enters to tell them lunch is ready in the kitchen. Kreacher’s cooking has improved, just as his manners and Harry is glad to see that the old hostility between his godfather and the elf is gone. 

When Hermione joins them for lunch, Harry tells them about the increase in Death Eaters watching the house.

“It’s like they’re hoping we’ll march out carrying our school trunks and head off for the Hogwarts Express.”

Hermione pushes her bowl away, soup only half-eaten. “It’s weird, not being back.”

Their eyes meet and Harry’s thoughts drift to Ron, who is probably sitting in a compartment and waiting for the witch selling sweets to arrive. 

Suddenly, Hermione’s eyes widen and she bolts from the room, leaving Sirius and Harry to stare after her. When she returns several minutes later, she is carrying her handbag and a large, framed painting which she proceeds to force inside. 

“Phineas Nigellus,” she explains. “He has a portrait in Dumbledore’s office. Snape might send him to spy on us.”

“Good thinking,” Sirius praises her, helping her push the painting fully into the bag. 

After lunch, they return to their plans, Hermione leaving in the afternoon to monitor the witches and wizards coming and going as their work day ends. 

Back at Grimmauld Place, going over plans for what feels like the hundredth time, Harry reaches a decision. 

“I think we should do it tomorrow.”

*

The next day is nothing but controlled chaos. Their plan works, Mafalda Hopkirk and Albert Runcorn come to work but never reach their destination with Harry and Hermione, transformed through Polyjuice Potion, having taken their place. 

They see Yaxley berate a terrified wizard in the Atrium who takes one look at Harry and decides to take another elevator. 

Harry infiltrates Umbridge’s office, enters the interrogation room with his Cloak pulled around him where the same wizard from before is watching worriedly as Yaxley and Umbridge accuse a witch, probably his wife, of stealing her wand from someone else. 

Then, it is chaos. The Muggleborns manage to escape and Harry’s heart is beating so fast he fears it might explode as he seizes Hermione and turns on the spot, darkness engulfs them, Harry feels like he is going to suffocate and Hermione’s fingers seem to be sliding out of his hand… 

He sees the door of Grimmauld Place yet before he can fully experience the relief the sight brings there is a scream and a flash of purple light; Hermione’s grip tightens suddenly and everything turns dark again. 

He comes to on leaves and twigs, staring up at trees and sunlight. 

“Hermione!” he shouts but before he reaches her, she sits up, gulping down air. 

“What happened? Why are we here? I thought we were going back to Grimmauld Place?” _I thought we promised Sirius we’d come back?_ he adds in his mind. 

“Harry, I don’t think we’re going to be able to go back there.”

“What do you –?”

“As we Disapparated, Yaxley caught hold of me and I couldn’t get rid of him, he was too strong, and he was still holding on when we arrived at Grimmauld Place, and then – well, I think he must have seen the door, and thought we were stopping there, so he slackened his grip and I managed to shake him off and I brought us here instead!” Hermione’s voice is shrill in the silence of the forest surrounding them. 

“But then… Hang on – do you mean he’s at Grimmauld Place? He can’t get in there!”

“Harry, I think he can.” Hermione is blinking rapidly now, trying to hold back the tears filling her eyes. “I – I forced him to let go with a Revulsion Jinx, but I’d already taken him inside the Fidelius Charm’s protection. Since Dumbledore died, we’re Secret Keepers, so I’ve given him the secret, haven’t I?”

Harry swallows, shaking his head. “But Sirius and Remus, they’re still there, we need to help-“

“Harry, they’re great wizards! They’ll be able to escape, alright? We can’t go back, it’s too risky! Sirius wouldn’t want us to, and we always knew we’d have to go off alone one day.”

He knows she is right. Still, it hurts, even more so as his mind flashes back to their heart-felt goodbye, Sirius hugging him and wishing them luck with a sparkle in his eyes which couldn’t hide the fact that his godfather would have loved to come with them on this adventure. 

Realisation dawns slowly and terrifyingly so. He is not going to see Sirius again for a long time. 

*

Sirius hears the scream even in the living room and within seconds he is out of his chair and in the hallway, wand raised and every muscle in his body tense in anticipation. 

He catches the last moments of a wizard being flung onto the floor through the door – a wizard he doesn’t recognise. The man doesn’t have time to prop himself up before Sirius’ curse hits him, rendering him unconscious. 

“Sirius?!” Remus is running down the stairs and stops on one of the lower steps as he takes in the scene below him. 

“Harry and Hermione must have been followed. I think they managed to escape but this one here,” he shoves the wizard with his foot, causing him to roll onto his back, “fell through the front door.”

“Damn it!” Remus closes the door hurriedly. “He must have managed to slide-along with them. Good thing they managed to shake him off, though.” 

Sirius meets his partner’s eyes and watches the colour drain from his face. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head, “we’re not killing him!” 

“For all we know he might be a Death Eater. He tried to hurt Harry.”

“He is a Death Eater –“ Sirius raises an eyebrow, “I’ve seen his picture, he’s the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I read his name in the Prophet… Yaxley! Yes, Yaxley. I’ve seen him at the last attack on a Muggle village, he lost his Death Eater mask because of one of Tonks’ curses.”

Sirius steps closer towards the body. “All the more reason to kill him.”

“And stoop to their level?” 

“So what do you suppose we do, offer him tea and biscuits?” Sirius snarls, anticipating Remus’ answering eye roll. 

“We can tie him up, tell the Order about this but we can’t decide to simply murder him.”

“Technically, I have one free. Or wait, thirteen, actually.”

“Stop joking about this, Padfoot.”

“Oh, nicknames, now I’m in trouble.”

“What’s this really about, Sirius?” Remus demands, taking a step in his direction. 

“This is a bloody Death Eater! A stinking Death Eater who is the reason Harry didn’t come back here and you suggest we only tie him up and wait for the Order to decide what to do with him? The hell I will!”

With a fling of his wand, Yaxley’s unconscious body props itself up and Sirius storms down the stairs to the basement, the man floating after him. He hears Remus’ footsteps following him but the fury in his veins is making it hard to care. 

He reaches the door next to the boiler room and flings it open with a flick of his wand. The room is empty save for two pairs of chains on the wall, decades old and long since out of use, yet Kreacher must have kept them in good condition at his mother’s request. 

He hears Remus stop in the doorframe just as he makes the chains fasten around Yaxley’s ankles and wrists. Sirius pulls the wand out of the man’s pocket and breaks it in two, the sound of it echoing with a satisfying _snap_ around the empty cell. 

“What is this place?” Remus all but whispers. 

“Holding cell and torture chamber; hasn’t been used in decades if not centuries.”

Remus shudders as he considers their hostage. “He could do with a chair.”

“The comfort of a sodding Death Eater is not very high on my list, Moony.”

The werewolf smiles wryly. “I meant for extra restraint. Tie him to a chair as well.”

Sirius smirks. “KREACHER! We need a chair down here!”

After the man is unable to move, bound to the chair and gagged thanks to Kreacher’s help which the elf eagerly offered, Remus puts a hand on Sirius’ chest to stop him from advancing on the prisoner. 

“We’ll return when he is conscious, Sirius.” Remus’ tone is firm and Sirius swallows, his fingers itching to hurt the bastard responsible for the fact that Harry can’t return. 

Fingers caress his cheeks and he tears his eyes away from Yaxley, meeting Remus’. “I know,” he says softly and brushes his lips against Sirius’. “Let’s go and let him wake up alone.”

Sirius smirks and pulls his partner out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

Yaxley will wake to darkness and silence. 

*

On September 1st, Professor McGonagall visits Draco and his mother not only to pick up a new batch of potions from Draco and deliver some new ingredients and orders, but also to inform them of recent events. 

“There have been more attacks on villages with a known Muggleborn population,” the teacher says gravely. “Ever since the Ministry has fallen, the attacks have become more and more obvious, I’m afraid.”

“Have you sustained any more losses?” Narcissa asks and smiles briefly when McGonagall shakes her head. 

“How was the first day at Hogwarts?” Draco asks, still feeling a bit melancholy, not having boarded the train for the first time in seven years that morning. 

McGonagall’s answer is a rather uncharacteristic sound, almost like a growl. “Snape has been named headmaster.”

“Snape?!” Draco shouts at the same time as his mother exclaims, “Severus?!”

“Yes. The appointment came from the Ministry, in other words, from You-Know-Who personally. Which also explains how the Carrow siblings attained positions amongst the faculty.” The witch shudders and Draco can but empathise. Alecto and Amycus are rather unpleasant to say the least. 

Following the start of the new term, the time Draco spends with Ianto decreases dramatically since the boy continues to work at the coffee shop despite his classes and when he is neither studying nor working, Ianto goes out with Delilah. 

Draco hates the girl for taking his friend away, just a little bit. Yet when Ianto’s mother has to be admitted to the hospital the second week of September and his father’s drinking worsens, it is Draco’s doorstep that Ianto turns up on. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and Draco can see the bruise on his cheek which everyone will think stems from one of the fights Ianto is rumoured to be prone participating in. “I know this isn’t planned, but, I mean, if you’ll let me…” He trails off, eyes on the floor and Draco pulls him into the house. 

“No need to ask,” he tells Ianto. “Consider it your room, you understand?”

Ianto’s head snaps up when he processes the implication, his eyes wide with disbelief. 

“I’m serious.”

Ianto releases a shaky breath and Draco can see unshed tears shining in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Draco nods in the direction of the living room. “Come on. How about some tea?” 

Ianto nods and ten minutes later, both of them are sitting on the sofa sipping hot tea in companionable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m tempted to allow Sirius to torture the bloke. Remus still won’t allow it but hell, he would deserve it… 
> 
> Also, sorry for not being in sync with the plot. I’m mostly following my gut with when to tell what, so next chapter will be Draco mid-September and then Sirius after Yaxley landed in his hallway. Hope you’re not too confused!


	4. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has to face the truth. Sirius and Remus confront their hostage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have porn for you! It’s not Harry/Draco but I do hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, this chapter is basically Harry-less. But well, the first phase of Horcrux hunting without Ron there to throw a tantrum doesn’t provide one with much to write about. At least my AU-plot lines are in sync again later in this chapter!
> 
> Fyi, Carwen is a traditional Welsh name, at least according to google.

_I've said it so many times_  
_I would change my ways_  
_No, never mind_  
_God knows I've tried_

_\- “Call me”, Shinedown_

*

Draco tries not to think about the fact that a Muggle boy basically lives with them now and it joins the rest of the thoughts he keeps blocking in the back of his mind along with his worries about Harry and his guilt concerning his father. 

He also tries to hate Delilah until Ianto decides they all need to hang about together and it turns out the girl is actually all right. A little boring, yet most Muggles are in Draco’s opinion, but she makes Ianto happy and bakes perfect Banoffee pie. 

“I’m having a birthday party next Saturday,” she says nearing the end of September. “I’d like you to come. Both of you.”

They are lounging in Draco’s living room – or rather, Draco and Ianto’s living room, as far as Lilah is concerned – flipping through the channels after dinner. 

“Thank you! We’d love to come!” Ianto answers before Draco even registers what exactly this means – namely celebrating an evening with a group of Lilah’s very Muggle friends at her very Muggle party. 

Which is why he spends a good portion of the following day looking for a present. Ianto is giving her a beautiful necklace Draco helped pick out a few days before, yet as someone who is decidedly not her boyfriend, Draco is at a loss regarding what to buy her. 

He settles on a gift certificate for a clothing store he heard her mention several times and a box of chocolates, which will probably end up as public property at the party so he opts for the cheaper ones. Besides, he doesn’t really care, anyway. 

“Draco.” Ianto sounds surprisingly earnest for a Friday night. 

“Yes?” 

“I feel it is my duty as your best friend to warn you. Evil plans have been set in motion.”

Draco narrows his eyes, used by now to Ianto’s ability to deliver the most ridiculous lines with a straight face. “And what evil plans would that be, pray tell?”

“Lilah has decided to set you up with one of her friends.”

“Why?”

“Because she thinks you’d like the girl. You’d make a nice couple.”

Draco’s heart jumps into his throat and his palms feel clammy all of a sudden. “Oh. What do you think?”

“Well,” Ianto stretches a bit on the sofa, “I only know her from Lilah’s accounts but she sounds great.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Draco manages, takes a deep breath and adds, “but that won’t be necessary. I’m taken, sort of.”

Ianto narrows his eyes suspiciously. “Oh, really? Since when? I think I’d have noticed if you’d been going off with a bird!”

Draco sighs, running a hand through his hair. It’s probably the gesture that gives away that the situation is more complex. 

“Since before I met you. It’s complicated,” Draco explains. 

“Why’ve you never said anything?”

“Because I was supposed to forget it. We can’t be together until… It has to do with why my father died. I can’t tell you the details, sorry. The point is that we can’t be together and I’m still not over him.” 

There. He said it. He is watching for Ianto’s reaction which is his eyes widening as the personal pronoun registers. 

“Him? You got a boyfriend?”

Draco shrugs. “Had. Have. It’s complicated.”

“Why haven’t you told me earlier?” Ianto demands and Draco knows it is about much more than just the fact that Draco is spoken for. 

“It never came up,” he responds truthfully. “Is this going to be a problem?” 

Their eyes meet and all Draco can discern is that Ianto is a little disappointment since Draco didn’t confide in him sooner. His heart lowers itself back down from his throat into his chest. 

“No.” Ianto shrugs. “So what are you going to tell this bird tomorrow?” 

“I was considering the art of lying through my teeth.”

“Why? Can’t you just say you’ve got a boyfriend?” When Draco raises a quizzical eyebrow, he elaborates. “Because I honestly don’t think they’ll mind. And this way, they won’t think they still stand a chance.”

“I’ll think about it.”

*

Twenty-four hours later Draco is considering his reflection in the tall mirror in his room. After weeks of being confronted daily with it, his light brown hair doesn’t even strike him as odd anymore. He decided to follow Ianto’s example of jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt, probably choosing the emerald one out of nostalgia, yet whether this is for Harry’s eyes or the Slytherin dorm, Draco doesn’t dare to determine. 

Ianto is wearing red underneath his leather jacket, perfectly wrapped present in hand as well as flowers he bought earlier. 

“Don’t drink too much,” Narcissa warns them both as she sees them out of the door and Draco refuses to blush. 

Lilah’s party takes place in the flat above the coffee shop where she lives with her parents (who have conveniently fled the apartment for the weekend). There is beer as well as vodka, whiskey and something Draco remembers is Tequila and will not come anywhere near him for the duration of the celebration. 

Draco makes polite small-talk with some of the guests while Lilah gushes over her necklace and smells the flowers. He is both appalled as well as fascinated by how well he manages to blend in with Muggles. 

_McGonagall would be proud_ , he thinks bitterly. 

“Draco,” Lilah calls and pushes an admittedly rather pretty blonde along with her. “This is Carwen.”

“Hello,” Draco greets her politely and she mirrors him. 

“Why don’t we take a seat and have a drink? I want you all to toast me!” Lilah announces and pulls Draco along with her and Carwen towards the sitting arrangement in the living room. Of course he ends up sitting next to the girl with the strange Welsh name. 

“Why don’t you tell Carwen a bit about yourself?” Lilah suggests fifteen minutes later and all eyes are suddenly on Draco who glances at Ianto who nods encouragingly. 

“In order to spare you a bit of trouble, and you,” he turns to Carwen, “any more awkward moments, I’ll tell you right now that she’s not my type, Lilah.”

She pouts, shooting back a sharp, “Who’s your type, then?”

“My boyfriend. It’s long distance at the moment.”

The circles falls silent until another one of Lilah’s friends, Erin he thinks, blurts out, “My cousin is gay, too! Though he’s twenty-six. Might be a bit old for you.”

Draco gives her his most charming smile. “It’s all right. I’m spoken for.”

And that concludes the topic, to Draco’s astonishment. 

The party is uncannily reminiscent of any wizarding party Draco has ever attended: with alcohol, drinking games, loud music and too much food. Muggle girls are also mostly daft and annoying, though Draco has yet to come across a girl who is as big a nag as Granger. 

An only slightly tipsy Draco rides his bike back alone since Ianto will spend the night – something he has flipped out about several times during the past week and Draco will undoubtedly be at the receiving end of an extensive analysis of what happened the next day. 

He doesn’t head for his room once he reaches the safe house but sits down on the balcony, performing a quick warming charm to keep off the cold night air. 

These past few months have changed him, he realises as he gazes across the city below him, outlined by nothing more than streetlights. His thoughts drift back to his first encounter with Ianto, how their arrangement started, Ianto supporting him after the night at the pub… 

The sound of footsteps causes Draco to turn around. Narcissa settles into a second chair, wrapping her nightgown tighter around herself. They sit in pensive silence for a while until Draco clears his throat, the alcohol loosening his tongue. 

“Why was I taught to hate Muggles? What’s so bad about them?”

His mother’s eyes are softer than they usually are when he meets her gaze. “I have been asking myself the same question,” she whispers into the night. “Patricia has been such a good friend these past weeks. I don’t know any of my magical acquaintances who would do the same.”

Draco knows Patricia – one of Narcissa’s high society friends who seems surprisingly less shallow than the rest of those harpies, Draco found. 

Silence stretches, the noise of the city nothing but a murmur in the background. 

“Was father wrong? Wrong to follow Him?” Draco finally dares. 

“I don’t know.”

Yet Draco fathoms both his mother and he know deep down that her answer is nothing more than an excuse to avoid speaking the truth that is staring them right in the face every time Ianto or Patricia are around. 

*

Consciousness returns to Oswald Yaxley in equal measures slowly and painfully. Breathing is difficult and his tongue pushes against the cloth in his mouth. The gag proves unyielding. 

His entire body feels stiff, his shoulders in particular ache deeply and when he tries to move he feels restraints. His eyes fly open yet it makes no difference – the room is pitch-black, no windows, no light source. 

He struggles, though it quickly proves in vain. He seems to be tied to a chair by magical rope, though he also believes there is metal around his wrists. 

Trying to remember anything that might explain his predicament, his mind wanders back to his last memories. The Ministry. Mrs Cattermole’s hearing. 

Harry Potter. 

Yes, he followed Potter, managed to get a hold of the Mudblood with him, Granger he thinks, and then a door, a Revulsion jinx, falling into the house but then – nothing. 

_I’m in a house Potter uses as a hide-out_ , Yaxley concludes, which would be a wonderful discovery if it weren’t for his restraints. 

He waits patiently, wondering if working for the Dark Lord makes one especially calm in the face of danger since regardless of the situation, the Dark Lord is still more dangerous than anything one could imagine. 

When the door eventually opens and someone kindles the lamp on the ceiling with a wand, Yaxley’s throat goes dry. 

Sirius Black is standing in the doorway. 

“Hello, Yaxley,” he says, an evil glint in his eyes. “I just wanted to show you whom exactly you ended up with.”

Against his better knowledge, Yaxley’s pulse quickens. Even though he knows Black didn’t kill all those Muggles as well as Pettigrew, he is still feared amongst Death Eaters for they especially know what Azkaban can do to a person. 

“You fate hasn’t been decided yet,” Black continues leisurely, “but I’m sure we’re going to question you. And if you’re not going to talk, I’ll readily support torturing you. Hell, I’ll even do it myself and with pleasure.” Black barks a laugh and extinguishes the lamp, though not before Yaxley managed to glance about the room, trying to find anything helpful. 

The room is bare. 

“You can piss yourself now,” Black sneers, throwing the door shut behind him. 

*

“You were down there, weren’t you?” Remus asks when Sirius enters the living room where his partner has just tied a letter to their owl. 

“Sorry,” is Sirius’ completely insincere reply. 

“What did you do?”

He raises his hands mockingly. “I only told him the facts. That he will most likely be interrogated and that if he doesn’t talk, I’ll torture him.”

Anger flares in Moony’s eyes immediately. “You are not going to torture him, Sirius!”

“And why not? Isn’t he just another Death Eater? Hasn’t he done horrible things? You said it yourself, he’s the Head of the Department of Magical –“

“Be that as it may, it doesn’t excuse throwing our morals out of the window.”

“This is war, Remus!”

“Which is why we need to be better than our adversaries,” Remus shoots back, voice forcibly calm.

“If we live by that, we’ll lose!”

“You’re not that person, Sirius. I know you,” Moony insists, swallowing hard, probably in an attempt to rein in his anger. “You wouldn’t torture anyone, not really.”

“I would kill if it needed be done.”

“But is it necessary now? He might not even know anything of importance!”

“He’s a Department Head! He’s the reason Harry is Undesirable Number One! He’s why –“ Sirius cuts himself off but the look on Remus’ face shows him he has already revealed too much. 

“And that’s the real reason, isn’t it?” Moony’s voice is soft, soothing even as he takes a step into Sirius’ personal space. “He took Harry away from you. And now that you’re finally in a position to do something, you’re jumping at the chance even if it means torture.”

Sirius wants to reply but his throat is dry and his chest tight. Remus shouldn’t mention Harry. Sirius had all summer to reconcile with the idea that his godson - who is his bloody responsibility - would leave Grimmauld Place behind and go on a hunt for Horcruxes when the entirety of the Ministry is after him. Yet after all this time, he still didn’t want to accept it, didn’t want to let Harry go, was glad that he would return after infiltrating the Ministry and now he couldn’t, had to flee because of that bloody waste of space of a Death Eater. 

And who knows what will happen to Harry out there, in a world Sirius hasn’t really seen for fifteen years and which he can’t protect his godson from. Voldemort will not stop until he finds Harry and then he will kill him, _neither can live while the other survives_ , Harry’s words still ringing in his ears, his tone hard and so bloody firm as he confided in Sirius last summer, but Harry is just a boy, hardly of age, while Voldemort is the most powerful wizard of all times – 

Strong arms pull him out of his thoughts and Sirius finds himself in Remus’ embrace but there’s no air –

“Breathe, Padfoot,” Remus murmurs, rubbing soothing circles into his back, “just breathe. It’s a panic attack, breathe through it.” 

Sirius does as he is told and feels tears sliding down his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” Moony whispers when Sirius’ breath has evened out again several minutes later. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Sirius shrugs. 

“Want to talk about it?”

“What’s there to say?”

“What has you so worried?”

“How can you ask that?” Sirius takes a step back but doesn’t shake off Remus’ arms still holding on to his sides. “Harry is now out there where he’ll never be safe and Voldemort is after him and won’t stop until he has achieved his goal!”

“Harry can look after himself. Hasn’t he proven this time and time again? You were always the first to say he can take care of himself.” 

“But this is different! This is worse than anything he has faced before, don’t you see that?”

“I do, but he is as stubborn as James was and did we ever manage to talk him out of anything?”

“No, but we were there to help him out of the shite he got into because of it.”

Moony sighs and raises his hand to caress Sirius’ cheeks. “I know. I know you’re frustrated because you’re confined to a house you hate, because you can’t help the way you want to. I know you’re worried but worry won’t help us, Sirius. All we can do is believe in Harry and that Dumbledore gave him what he needs to accomplish his task.”

Sirius snorts. “Yeah, Dumbledore left him a snitch. How’s that supposed to help defeat Voldemort?”

“Dumbledore worked in mysterious ways, Sirius.”

They stand there in silence for a while, Remus’ thumb stroking his jaw and he leans into the touch. 

“But really, Padfoot. You have to stop worrying, especially now that Harry is gone. You have the coin; you will know how he is. He’s not gone forever.”

Logical thought tells Sirius his partner is right, that worrying won’t help and that he doesn’t need to, not yet. His heart, however, tells a different story. 

Just then he feels something in his pocket grow warm and with a shout he disentangles himself from Remus’ arms and pulls the coin out of his pocket. 

_We’re safe; Hermione took us to a forest. Yaxley was inside the Fidelius. Please tell me you’re all right?_

Sirius sags against the kitchen counter, relief flooding him. He shows the coin to Remus who has been activated as a user of the coin and receives a smile in return. 

He quickly conjures his response. 

_We’re both fine. Yaxley bound and gagged in the basement, don’t worry. Please stay safe._

“I was sure you’d asked him to return, even if we all agreed he needed to leave.”

Sirius puts the coin back into his pocket. “I almost did. But I would never have let him go again if he had come back to Grimmauld Place.”

Their eyes meet, Remus’ mirroring the sadness that surely is visible in his own, and Sirius moves, leaning forward, brushing his lips against Remus’. The kiss stays chaste for about half a minute before Sirius bites Remus’ lower lip, eliciting a growl from the werewolf. 

In one swift movement, Moony has maneuvered them against the book case, pushing their groins together. Sirius feels the edges of the shelves dig into his back but it doesn’t matter when he feels Remus’ growing erection against his own. 

When they break their kiss, Sirius bares his throat, drawing a low growl from Remus who bites the crook of his neck hard enough to make Sirius wince and his cock jump inside his pants. 

He recalls a time when Moony was way more reserved, asking permission for every scrape of his teeth against Sirius’ skin, afraid the wolf inside him would come out too much, would hurt his lover and it is brilliant proof of how much their relationship has evolved that Remus can simply let go like this and Sirius can give himself over completely. 

The warmth of Moony’s body leaves him and he almost falls forward. He glances up at Remus whose eyes are dark with lust. A movement of his hand and Sirius is naked, clothes neatly folded on the chair in the corner. Another flick of his wrist and Remus’ clothes are gone as well and Sirius drinks in the sight of his lover’s body. 

Moony advances like a predator would on his prey, grabbing Sirius’ arms and throwing him roughly against the sofa so that the armrest is digging into his stomach. Remus is on him immediately, draping himself over Sirius’ back, rubbing his cock against his arse. Sirius bares his neck again and feels Remus’ cock twitch and his nails dig into his sides. 

Sirius cries out when one hand releases him just as human teeth break skin yet he jolts in pleasure when he feels a finger trace the cleft of his arse and tease his hole. The tenderness Remus pours into preparing him is a delicious contrast to the bruising grip his other hand has on Sirius and soon he finds himself rocking back, fucking himself on Remus’ fingers. 

“Come on, Moony, I need you inside me,” he pants. His lover obliges immediately, replacing his fingers with his hard cock in one well-practised move. He doesn’t give Sirius time to adjust or to enjoy the feeling of being filled – instead, Remus takes him with brutal thrusts, fingernails and teeth marking every inch the werewolf can reach. Sirius’ erection is rubbing against the sofa, the friction perfect but still not enough, yet he can’t release his grip on the cushions. 

Suddenly, Remus pulls out. Sirius moans at the loss but further protests die in his throat as his lover manhandles him onto his back and climbs over the armrest. Remus drapes Sirius’ legs over his shoulders and is inside him again, pressing close enough for Sirius’ erection to be caught between their torsos. 

Sirius moans and whimpers, the new angle does wonders for his prostate and all too soon he feels his orgasm building. Remus can probably smell it for he smirks and leans down to steal a brutal kiss that takes Sirius’ breath away and pushes him over the edge. 

Remus doesn’t relent; if anything, his thrusts become harder until he stills completely. Sirius opens his eyes, not wanting to miss the look of bliss on Remus’ face as he spills his release inside his body and collapses on top of him. 

*

A soft hooting noise wakes Sirius and he disentangles himself from Remus’ sleeping form. With a smile, Sirius notes that they fell asleep on the sofa. 

He recognises McGonagall’s handwriting and isn’t sure whether he wants to know what she has to say. With a glance at Moony he breaks the seal and unrolls the parchment. 

_Dear Remus, dear Sirius,_

_Thank you for informing me of this immediately. I’m relieved you managed to subdue Yaxley though I would not have expected any less of you._

_Regarding how we will proceed: Obliviating him is out of the question since once someone is inside a Fidelius Charm, nothing can take the knowledge from them again. And no, Sirius, killing his is out of the question, even if he is a Death Eater._

_As Head of the DMLE, Yaxley is bound to have certain information concerning You-Know-Who’s plans. I doubt, however, that the man will release them voluntarily. As leader of the Order, I officially forbid you to use means of torture to extract information. There are other ways. I will procure Veritaserum and personally administer it, should I manage to leave the school undetected._

_Until this day comes, don’t harm your hostage, though I doubt he will need any luxuries._

_Sincerely,_  
_Minerva McGonagall_

Briefly, Sirius considers burning the letter yet Remus would see right through him if he said the witch had approved of the violent extraction of information. And knowing Remus, ignoring McGonagall’s words would lead to very bad things – a sex ban, for one, and then where would Sirius be?

Sighing, he sets the letter down and lies back down next to his sleeping wolf. 

*

Draco barely slept the night following Lilah’s birthday party yet he needs to be alert. Today he has to put the finishing touches to the Veritaserum brewing in the one room Ianto doesn’t have access to, which is why Draco downs three cups of coffee with breakfast and disappears before his mother has awoken. 

McGonagall and he agreed she would come by the safe house at ten, reducing the risk of Ianto being there since he, Draco guesses, will spend the morning engaging in carnal activities with his girlfriend. 

“Thank you, Draco.” McGonagall looks worried. Draco can only guess that the Carrows are proving to be awful teachers and no one can stop them. 

“No problem, it was an interesting challenge,” he replies with a smirk, carefully concealing the fact that he has never before brewed such a complicated potion. 

His former teacher nods and turns to leave. Draco doesn’t call her back and ask if she knows any news of Harry even though his fingers are itching and his chest is aching to know what became of the Boy Who Lived. 

*

Remus observes the brown eyes of Oswald Yaxley glaze over as the Veritaserum takes effect. Their hostage is back in the chair after spending most of his time at Number Twelve on the floor of the cell, tied to the wall with no means of escape. 

If Sirius had his way, Yaxley would have probably starved to death by now, yet Remus made sure to look after the Death Eater. Even so, the man’s face looks gaunt in the dim light of the lamp on the ceiling. 

“What is your name?” Minerva asks. 

“Oswald Gilford Yaxley.”

“What is your position in the Ministry?”

“Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, though I have been replaced by now, presumably.”

“What is your affiliation with Lord Voldemort?” Sirius barks at him yet Yaxley’s face remains calm. 

“I am his follower. I bear the Dark Mark.”

“What are You-Know-Who’s plans for the future?” Minerva takes over again with a slight glare in Sirius’ direction. 

“I do not know the plans of my Lord.”

“You’re a Department Head, you must know certain plans,” Minerva insists and Remus notices the heightened stiffness in Sirius’ neck with worry. 

“What kinds of laws or decrees will he pass?” Remus tries and thankfully, Yaxley is less vague now. 

“He will ban his name from being said out loud since it is a trademark of members of the Order of the Phoenix.”

“How will it work?”

“Every time someone says his name the Ministry will be notified. He shall only be addressed as ‘Dark Lord’ soon.”

Remus, Sirius and Minerva share glances.

“What measures does he intend to take regarding the Undesirable Number One?” Minerva asks and Remus feels his throat tighten. 

“The Dark Lord knows Harry Potter is out there, hiding. A curfew will be imposed on purely Wizarding communities, triggering an alarm should anyone linger or arrive after curfew. The Snatchers are also out there, looking for him.”

“Snatchers?” Remus wonders out loud. 

“Low-lives trawling the woods and mountains for runaway Mudbloods and Mudblood sympathisers. If they catch a wanted fugitive, they receive a reward.”

“What are Voldemort’s plans for Harry Potter?”

“He wants to kill him.”

Remus swallows his fear yet Sirius isn’t as composed. His hand lashes out before either Remus or Minerva can stop him and he hits Yaxley square across the face. 

“Sirius!” Remus half-admonishes, half-soothes and pulls his lover back. 

“Yes, you filthy monster, hold back your perverted boyfriend,” Yaxley snarls. “He’s worse than the Muggle-lovers, shagging an animal! Don’t you think I have no idea what’s going on in this house, Black, I know you’re the wolf’s little bitch-“

Remus’ grip on Sirius slackens, weakened by his own anger and they both pounce on the Death Eater, tipping over the chair backwards, causing Yaxley’s head to hit the ground with a satisfying _thump_. 

“ENOUGH!” Minerva roars and only then does Remus realise that he has been punching Yaxley so hard he broke the man’s nose. The broken jaw, however, seems to be Sirius’ doing. 

“Have you both gone mad?” Minerva implores, fixing them both with a stern gaze. Remus glances at Sirius who looks as furious as Remus feels. He takes a steadying breath which doesn’t help at all since it carries the scent of blood into his nose. 

Remus has to actively stop himself from licking his knuckles, which are drenched in Yaxley’s blood. 

A cough from the man draws all their attention to the ground. 

“I’ve heard enough of the Death Eater scum,” Sirius announces and flees the room. 

Minerva remains silent, her eyes conveying her disappointment about how Remus could lose control like this. 

“He was insulting –“

“I don’t care whom he was insulting; you are not to be ruled by rage, Remus. Foolhardy actions like this have dire consequences in situations like ours. Now go after your partner while I’ll see if this idiot knows more.”

Remus chances a smile before he leaves, heading straight to the library – the only place Sirius seems to have grown fond of in the entire house – leaning against the mantelpiece.

“Padfoot,” he dares, which has Sirius whirling around immediately, fury still high in his eyes. 

“No one calls you an animal, Moony! Especially not scumbags like him!”

“Thank you.”

“I mean – what?”

“For trying to defend my honour. Even if the man you attacked was defenceless and not worth our attention. But thank you.”

Remus steps into Sirius’ personal space and presses their foreheads together, inhaling deeply. Sirius must have a cracked knuckle, he can smell his blood. Without making the conscious decision to do so, Remus takes Sirius’ hand and kisses the wound, tasting his lover’s blood. 

It’s not that Remus denies that his nature is part human, part wolf. Hell, even a few years ago, he would have agreed with Yaxley calling him a monster. It took Sirius coming back into his life to make him realise the wolf doesn’t define him exclusively. 

And Sirius, wonderful beautiful Sirius, knows him better than anyone else, has grown to love him when they were seventeen and then again when they were thirty-four after years apart. Sirius not only accepts the wolf but embraces him, knows what he needs and isn’t afraid to give it. 

Remus tries to put all his thoughts and emotions into a single kiss that leaves both him and Sirius breathless when they eventually pull apart. 

Before either of them can speak, a cough interrupts them. Minerva is waiting in the doorframe. 

“Apparently we have extracted all the information that was to be extracted,” she explains curtly. “I’m afraid the man has to remain here longer still since he knows too much and we can’t risk the information falling into the wrong hands.” 

“If you expect us to feed that sodding bastard –“

“Yes, Sirius, I do. He is our captive and we are not a brute band of barbarians. We are the Order of the Phoenix, Sirius Black, and we do not kill because it is the convenient solution.”

Remus squeezes Sirius’ hand which he is still holding and, thank Merlin, his lover holds his tongue.

“Understood,” Remus replies, concluding the matter. “Let me see you to the floo.”

And if Sirius follows a little disgruntledly it doesn’t faze him as long as Sirius follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To knot or not to know, that was the question. I decided against it, eventually, since I didn’t want to add the tag. It took me a while to like that particular kink and I didn’t want to deter anyone.


	5. Meanwhile, at Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation at Hogwarts is dire. Ron does his best to rebel against the Carrow’s and Snape’s regime yet he soon has to realise that he is fighting the wrong battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a tad shorter than usual, sorry for that, but I wanted a chapter that is Hogwarts-only :)

_Hey brother, do you still believe in one another?_  
_Hey sister, do you still believe in love I wonder?_  
_Oh if the sky comes falling down, for you,_  
_there’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do._

_What if I'm far from home?_  
_Oh brother, I will hear you call._  
_What if I lose it all?_  
_Oh sister, I will help you out!_  
_Oh if the sky comes falling down, for you,_  
_there’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t do._

_\- “Brother/Sister”, Avicii_

*

Ron knows it is daft but he can’t stop himself from scanning the crowd gathered on the platform. Of course neither Hermione nor Harry are there, he never thought they would come, not really. 

Still. 

Ever since the catastrophic wedding, Ron hasn’t been able to escape the feeling he might have made a mistake. He had a lot of time during the summer, what with not hanging out with his former best friends and all; besides, Fred and George made it their mission to engage him in quite a few annoying conversations. 

As if it’s his fault that he can’t bear the thought of two blokes… It makes him sick.

“Well, and some of the things you’ll get up to between the sheets with some bird one day will make me sick!” Fred would say. “Does that mean it’s morally wrong?”

“No, mate, because it’s with a girl!”

“So? Love is love, isn’t it?”

Stupid twins. Ron has never been able to win arguments against them and this matter wasn’t any different. After a few weeks of this, which included seeing Harry at the wedding, Ron had to face the truth: He might not like queers at all, but there’s nothing really he can do or say against them. 

_Well, only now it’s too late to change things with Harry_ , Ron thinks glumly as he considers the Hogwarts Express. His fingers close around the Deluminator in his pocket, wondering if he should really board the train. After all, with the new regulations in place, a lot of his classmates won’t be back. 

“Oi, Ron!” 

He turns around and sees Neville waving at him. 

“You’re the first in our dorm I’ve seen! I was afraid I’d end up alone.”

“What, don’t you want the dormitory all to yourself, mate?” he jokes, releasing the Deluminator. Of course, both Dean and Seamus wouldn’t be able to pass the required blood status tests… 

Decision made, Ron hurries over to his parents and hugs them good-bye before he joins Neville in an empty compartment. 

Neville shifts nervously in his seat, worrying his lower lip between his teeth for a while before he dares to ask, “Any word from Harry?”

Ron shakes his head. “Last time I saw them was at the wedding.” 

“Oh. Well, I guess they haven’t been captured, have they? It would’ve made the Prophet, I’m sure.”

Ron shrugs helplessly. Suddenly, the compartment door bursts open moments before the train starts to move. 

“Blimey, I almost missed it!” Seamus cries, flopping down on a seat next to Ron who, just like Neville, can’t hide his surprise. “What?”

“You’re here! How’re you here!” Neville shouts and Seamus makes a shushing noise. 

“Right, mate, announce it to the entire train, won’t you? Me mum forged the papers, see? Said it’ll be safer here; besides, what else would I’ve done?”

“Dean wasn’t on the platform,” Ron remarks and Seamus’ face darkens. 

“Brilliant, now we’re two Gryffindors short! How’re we going to stand up to the slimy git and his thugs now?”

“Stand up?” Ron asks and Seamus’ eyebrows rise. 

“You don’t suppose everything’s going to be all dandy now, are you? I heard we’ve got two new teachers, Death Eaters. And Snape’s Headmaster! They’ll crush us!” Then, Seamus sneers. “But we won’t let them!”

“Dumbledore’s Army!” Neville jumps up excitedly when he gets what Seamus is hinting at. “I’m sure a lot of the others will want to join once we see how things are going.”

Before he can think how he feels about it, Ron realises he is smiling. He might not be with Harry and Hermione but apparently he doesn’t need the Chosen One to stand up to You-Know-Who. 

About half an hour into their journey, Seamus narrows his eyes. “You’re being strangely civil, mate.”

“So?” Ron aims for innocent, hoping they could avoid any weird conversations. 

“No more yelling ‘I can’t sleep in the same room as two fags’ in the tower?”

Ron shrugs uncomfortably. “Just don’t flaunt it, all right?”

“Flaunt it?” Seamus’ voice rises but Neville quickly cuts between them. 

“Thanks, Ron. Harry would be glad to hear it. Besides – we need to stick together this year,” Neville intones, fixing Seamus with a stern look, silencing any other protests the Irish boy might have wanted to voice. 

Ron knows he hasn’t heard the last of it and Seamus will surely be pissed off for another few weeks, though he is pretty sure he can handle it. Besides, with what they are up against, it might make Seamus forget he is trying to be angry with Ron. 

*

“What do you mean, ‘mandatory Muggle studies’?!”

“Exactly what I said, Mr Weasley,” McGonagall tells him. “The Ministry has decided every student needs to learn what they consider important knowledge on Muggles.”

The disdain in her voice is apparent and Ron growls though his outrage is nothing now compared to how he feels after the first lesson with Alecto Carrow. 

“Is there a problem?” Alecto must have followed them out of the classroom and is now wearing a sweet smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

“Like hell there is a problem!” Ron draws himself up as a hush falls over the crowd gathered in the corridor. “You’re saying that Muggleborns don’t deserve to learn magic but I’ve known some who are more powerful than you’ll ever be!”

Alecto raises an eyebrow. “That’s because they stole their magic from powerful witches and wizards, Mr Weasley.”

“That’s bollocks! Merlin’s beard, have you ever even met a Muggle?!” 

“Now why would I want to meet a Muggle, Mr Weasley?” Her voice is threateningly low. “They’re vile, filthy humans who refuse our community their rightful place, forcing us into hiding. Why would I want to talk to them?”

“To see if it’s true what you’re saying!” Ron shouts, not caring about the consequences anymore. “But you’re too daft to question anything, aren’t you, you just do what you’re told, by the Ministry, by You-Know-Who-“

“That’s enough!”

Ron falls silent, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He can see his fear reflected in the eyes of Neville, Seamus and the rest of his classmates. 

“It’s not your place to question what your betters have discovered,” Carrow drawls, drawing her wand. “You need to be punished for your disobedience, Mr Weasley.”

Ron crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Well, give me detention, then.”

Alecto barks out a laugh. “Oh no, Mr Weasley. I doubt detention will be enough to make you learn.” She points the wand at him. “ _Crucio_!”

His body explodes with pain, daggers are digging into his skin, his hands are on fire, something is trying to tear him apart from the inside and all he can do is scream.

After an eternity, it stops and Ron finds himself on the floor curled up and trembling. He glances up into the shocked faces of his friends. 

“Let this be a lesson to all of you,” Alecto says and sweeps past Ron without sparing him another glance. 

*

That first evening, while Ron, Neville and the girls still left in their class (everyone except Hermione) are working on their first homework of their year, the portrait opens and shuts with a loud bang and a bloke rushes past their group. 

“Wasn’t that Seamus?” Parvati asks. 

“I don’t care,” Lavender snaps, scribbling furiously on her parchment. 

Ron and Neville exchange glances and follow the boy up to their dormitory. 

“Leave me alone!” Seamus shouts when they enter. He sounds like he is crying and Ron turns to go but Neville blocks the door and pushes him inside. 

“What’s wrong?” Neville sits down on a corner of the bed. 

“Sod off, you wankers!” 

“Weren’t you meeting Theo tonight?” Neville asks and Ron freezes. Intriguingly, so does Seamus. 

“Shut up!”

“What happened? Come on, Seamus, you can tell us.”

“You’ll just laugh at me!” 

“Oi!”

“Not you, Neville, but Ginger will,” Seamus grumbles and finally sits up on the mattress, wiping his cheeks dry. 

Ron just looks at him questioningly. 

“Theo and I are over!” Seamus shouts. “You happy now, mate? No more queers in your dorm, at least no active ones…”

A new wave of tears fills Seamus’ eyes and suddenly, Ron feels very out of place in his own dormitory. 

“What happened?” Neville dares after a while. 

“Someone told Theo’s father. And he… reacted badly. Punished him, I don’t know, Theo wouldn’t go into details, but… He said we have to end it.”

“That’s bollocks!” Neville jumps up, indignant. “That’s none of his business! Just see him under his dad’s nose!”

“He’s a Death Eater, Neville! What do you think he’d do to his son if he discovered him lying? Grow up, mate! It’s over!”

Seamus throws himself back down onto the bed. “Now get the bloody fuck out!”

Ron flees, Neville at his heels. They come to a stop in the middle of the staircase. 

“Stupid Death Eaters!” Neville shouts, kicking the handrail. “But tell me you’re at least a bit sorry for them!”

Ron takes a step back, considering. “I dunno.”

“Come on, Ron! The blokes were in love! And now they can’t be, that’s not all right! Didn’t you tell me your mum didn’t like your brother’s wife at first? What’d you say if she told him to stop seeing her?”

Ron shrugs but a voice in his head tells him exactly how he’d feel. It must have shown on his face, too.

“That’s what I thought. Because there’s no difference, is there?” Still angry, Neville stomps down the rest of the stairs, leaving Ron alone with his thoughts. 

*

Three days later, Ginny smears “ _Dumbledore’s Army, Still Recruiting_ ” on the wall near the Great Hall just before everyone comes down for dinner.

Everyone knows who to contact and Ron, Neville and Ginny spent most of the weekend talking to other students who won’t accept Snape’s new regime, producing more coins for the group to communicate with. 

They decide to meet once a week in the Room of Requirement to think of ways to undermine the Death Eaters and for the first time in weeks, Ron feels like he is actively doing something and not just sitting by while Harry and Hermione are out there, fighting a war. 

Their ranks have thinned with many friends gone because of their blood status, yet the former core of the DA is still there, ready to do something, anything, really. 

One night in October, Ginny is out of breath when she reaches the common room after an appointment with the Headmaster. Someone spotted her with red paint and tied her to the newest wave of graffiti decorating school walls, saying inspiring stuff like “ _The Chosen One lives_ ” or hilarious stuff like “ _No Power To You-No-Poo_ ”. 

“He has it!” she cries, looking more furious than Ron has ever seen her and that is saying something, given how he and the twins had teased her when they were younger. 

“Who has what?” Neville cuts in, putting his quill down. 

“Snape! That oily, snake-faced bastard has Gryffindor’s sword in his office! What gives him the right – how can he – argh!” She kicks the table closest to her, crying out in anger. 

“What?” Several voices demand and the next thing Ron knows it that everyone is protesting and he and Neville are scheming to get the Sword back into Gryffindor possession. 

Their plan is simple but hopefully effective: Steal into Snape’s office while he is at the Ministry – something that happens about two or three times a week, _probably getting cosy with You-No-Poo_ , Ron thinks grimly – and retrieve the Sword. 

As he, Neville, Ginny and Luna make their way towards the Headmaster’s office, Ron wishes they had the Invisibility Cloak to avoid Filch and Mrs Norris. However, everything goes smoothly. They manage to guess the password (‘pureblood’, _really innovative, Snape_ ) in less than three minutes and successfully extract the Sword from its show cabinet. 

Everything would have gone over perfectly… if Snape hadn’t waited for them at the foot of the staircase to the headmaster’s office. 

“Well, well, why am I not surprised? The most prominent attribute of Gryffindors always was stupidity,” he sneers. “Fifty points from each of you for this transgression. And you will receive detention,” he promises and Ron can’t suppress a shudder. Detention is feared nowadays. Either the Carrows spend the time by using the Cruciatus Curse on you or another student is forced to do it. One second-year has also been chained to a wall for a night as punishment. 

“Hand me back the Sword.”

“No!” Ginny shouts. “It doesn’t belong to you!”

“It belongs to the school, the very school of which I am Headmaster. I have every right to claim this artefact.”

“It’s Gryffindor’s sword! It’s ours!” Ginny insists and Ron glimpses how Snape grips his wand tighter. 

“Stop acting like a stupid girl or I will have to curse you.”

“Don’t you dare hurt her!” Ron shouts, raising his wand. 

Snape’s gaze is cold and emotionless as it moves back and forth between him and his sister. 

“I won’t if she hands me back the sword. And if you refuse, Mrs Weasley,” Snape adds, pointing his wand at Ron instead, “I will be sure to hand over your brother to the Ministry and have him persecuted.”

“On what grounds!” Neville cuts in but Snape merely laughs. 

“A man in my position doesn’t need solid proof, you fools. Now, Ms Weasley, would you risk your brother’s life for a piece of metal, as steep in history as it may be?”

Reluctantly, Ginny raises the sword and allows Snape to take it from her. 

“Now it is time for you mindless apes to return to your lair. You will report at eight tomorrow night for your detention in the Entrance Hall”

Ron wants to ask what their detention will consist of yet a look from Snape silences him immediately. 

*

In the end, neither of them should have worried since their detention is to help Hagrid in the Forbidden Forest. Granted, weeding out magical mushrooms that are a threat to fairies isn’t pleasant but it beats being on the receiving end of a _Cruciatus_ from the Carrows every day. 

As he is fighting a rather resilient mushroom, Ron spots a blue flower. He doesn’t know what it is called; what he does know, however, is that it is used in magical explosives. He plucks all of the flowers he can find and puts them in his robe pockets. 

Back in the common room, he spots Seamus writing an essay, probably for Muggle studies judging by the angry expression he is wearing. 

“I found something,” Ron announces which makes Seamus look up, face immediately turning into a scowl. 

Before the boy can retort, Ron pulls the blue flowers out of his pockets and places them on the table next to Seamus who looks as if he had been hit by the Knight Bus. 

“Where did you get these?”

“The Forrest. During detention.”

“What, Snape held detention in the forest?”

“No, you dolt, he handed us over to Hagrid, we had to weed mushrooms and I saw the flowers and remembered they’re used in explo- you know, just forget it,” he sighs, frustrated by Seamus’ still hostile look, and heads to take a shower to get rid of the forest smell. 

He is about to undress when Seamus bursts into the room, looking apologetic. 

“Look, mate, I’m sorry, I just thought it was a joke at first.”

“How could that’ve been a joke?”

“Well,” he smirks, “it’s not every day a guy brings me flowers.”

Ron’s jaw drops and he feels anger flare in his chest. 

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Seamus waves it off with a hand, “it was just a joke. Really, thanks for the flowers, they’re rare and brilliant.”

“Don’t mention it,” Ron replies after a pause. 

Seamus nods and leaves him to his shower. And just like that, things are back to how they were before the bloke decided to snog a Slytherin.

Ron wishes relationship with girls were this straight forward from time to time.

 

*

Their failed attempt to steal the sword leads to a new wave of interest in the DA, which wouldn’t be a bad thing if said wave didn’t include Blaise Zabini. 

“What do you want?” Ron snarls at him when the boy seeks him and Neville out in the library. 

“I want to help.”

“You want to spy, don’t you?”

“You’re letting Pansy help,” Zabini shots back and Ron’s head whirls around to look at Neville who at least has the decency to blush. 

“She doesn’t like torturing people. That’s why she’s helping us.”

“So what’s your excuse?” Ron snaps at the Slytherin, fixing him with a glare. 

“You know quite well who changed me,” Zabini insists and Ron wants to slap him for mentioning Hermione, even indirectly. 

“What’s to say you’re serious? You could’ve just been using her to be able to spy on us. That’d be the Slytherin thing to do, wouldn’t it?” Ron crosses his arms and glares some more. 

Anger flares in Zabini’s eyes. “If you can’t grasp the concept of deep emotion, I pity you, Weasley.”

“Guys, calm down,” Neville cuts in. “Why don’t we give him a chance, huh, Ron? Let him do things but not allow him to our DA meetings right away?”

Ron considers the Slytherin for a long time, a different sort of doubts he has been having in the forefront of his mind. Malfoy hasn’t returned either and that did surprise him. After all, the little git would have loved to torture unruly students. Or would he? The problem is, Ron isn’t so sure anymore.

He groans in frustration and throws his hands up. “All right, but the first sign of betrayal and you’ll wish you’d have never talked to us, understand?”

Zabini nods curtly yet a smile is tugging on the corners of his mouth. 

*

Severus watches the supposedly covert glances several students are sending each other over the dinner tables with worry. Something is bound to come; he merely hopes for the sake of the students that he will be the one to catch them during the act. 

He noted Blaise’s and Pansy’s increasing interaction with Longbottom and Weasley two weeks ago and it hasn’t abated since. _Good for them_ , Severus muses, _some Slytherin cunning will help with their Gryffindor stupidity_.

A bowl of potatoes hovers past him and towards Minerva who pointedly doesn’t look at him as she sends the dish back after taking out some food instead of asking Severus to pass it to and fro. 

He stifles a sigh. He feels tired, more tired than he has ever felt in his life. 

He retires early that evening, inventing an excuse about a letter he has to send to Pius while instead he indulges the urge he has been feeling for days. He slides into the adjoining room of the Headmaster’s office and orders an elf to brink him whisky. 

He hardly ever drinks, his father having been enough of a deterring example, yet on rare occasions, he forgoes his own rule. 

Not for the first time he wonders if all he is doing will prove in vain. If Potter and his entourage will bring upon the fall of the Dark Lord like Dumbledore – Dumbledore’s portrait – seems so adamant about. 

Then again: It really isn’t of import. Severus knows he will not survive this war. 

The realisation used to be discomfiting, now he draws strength from it. Gone are the times he made plans for his retirement, gone are the times he thought of names for spell books, potions books, books on Defence he was going to publish. The Half-Blood Prince is not going to make his mother proud that way, not anymore. 

If living under the fist of Albus Dumbledore taught Severus anything it is that one’s own life, in the face of the Greater Good, is meaningless. 

Only the consequences of one’s actions count. 

*

Severus is overseeing Weasley’s and Longbottom’s detention for one reason: to find out whether they know anything about Potter’s plans or whereabouts. 

“ _I prefer not to put all my secrets in one basket_ ,” Dumbledore said a lifetime ago yet Severus doubts Potter will think in similar terms. Even Snape is aware of the Golden Trio going their separate ways, though, which may complicate the matter. Everything hinges on whether or not the Chosen One and his sidekick have found a way to return to being in cahoots during the summer. 

_Dumbledore’s Army, Still Recruiting_. He detests the myriad of way Gryffindors find courage and hope in the daftest of actions. It is, apparently, too much to hope for that Weasley and Longbottom will sit idly by and endure the year without drawing the wrath of the Death Eaters on themselves.

From time to time, however, Severus manages to assign them detention before the Carrows open their mouths. Which grant him an opportunity to probe into their minds… 

Neither of the boys has ever received any form of training for it suffices to sweep their thoughts superficially to gather quite a large amount of information. 

Longbottom is planning another stunt similar to the one that landed him in this very spot; only this time in a more shielded part of the castle. Severus makes a mental note to change the patrolling schedule for the following week to reduce the risk of one of the Carrows catching Longbottom in the act. 

The boy also seems to have an unhealthy interest in finding a place for him and his girlfriend to spend some time alone and another mental note will ensure hormonal teenagers will no longer defile the Astronomy Tower. 

Weasley’s thoughts – Severus almost questions his luck; then again, Gryffindors never were the cleverest of students, especially in the presence of a skilled Legilimens – circle around Harry Potter. Apparently Mr Weasley regrets abandoning his best friend just a little now that the Chosen One is fulfilling his destiny, having left his former sidekick behind. 

Well, Weasley never was more than a moth drawn to Potter’s bright flame. 

Speaking of flame… Severus has to restrain himself or else he would have gasped upon realising that Dumbledore left his own Deluminator to the Gryffindor. 

Apparently the former Headmaster believed the flame wouldn’t be able to survive without its moth. Very well, then. If Weasley wants to escape Hogwarts, Severus will facilitate it and be rid of the troublemaker for the rest of the school year. 

*

Ron sighs heavily, the sound echoing around the empty common room. Everyone has gone to bed, only he is left down here, thinking. 

It is December already and he has finally come to a decision. Standing up to the Carrows or annoying Snape isn’t worth anything; all they are achieving is getting people hurt. 

This week alone more DA members were in the hospital wing than out. 

Yet Ron can’t for the life of Merlin come up with a way to escape. All the secret passages out of school have been blocked so getting into Hogsmeade undetected won’t be possible. There are no trips to the village anymore, so that is out of the question, too. 

It is Thursday, December 18th. Tomorrow is their last Friday at Hogwarts and on Saturday, the train will take them back home. He needs to act fast but he can’t just go without a plan. 

“Hermione, where are you when I need you,” he murmurs to himself, angrily pulling out the Deluminator and flicking the lid until the clicking noise fills the room. 

He stops abruptly, blinks, and turns the small device over in his hands. 

He clicks it. The lights in the common room immediately go out but then, another light appears in front of the portrait hole. 

Ron stares for a few seconds, then he bold up the stairs and into the dorm, cramming everything he thinks he needs into a bag, then he scribbles a quick note and leaves it on top of his undeterred sheets before he goes after the light.

_I’m gone, I have to do something. Don’t worry about me and please, mates, stay safe._

_PS: Sorry Neville, I stole some of your sweets for the way!_

*

Severus shudders when he considers how easy it was to put a tracing charm on the Weasley boy. Primitive, indeed, yet effective. 

He is following the boy through the halls leading to the rooms used for storage, immediately realising there has to be one path out of the school they failed to seal off. 

Severus confounds Alecto from around a corner where he remains, unseen, as the vile woman turns and continues into a different direction, leading her away from Mr Weasley. 

Snape, however, follows him into the storage facilities and watches as a ball of light hovers in front of a portrait of a lion. The animal used to continuously roar at students, unsettling first-years which is why they had it removed and put in here. Now, though, the animal positively pours and unveils a passage behind the canvas. Weasley doesn’t need a written invitation to Severus’ surprise, he merely stares at the hole in the wall for fifteen seconds before he moves and climbs up. 

Once the painting has sealed the passage again, Severus steps forward. The lion roars immediately and lashes out with its claws ever more viciously the closer he tries to come. 

Snape admits defeat with a sigh. At least he still has a trace on the boy, which will make it easier to find him once he is back with Potter and Granger should other means of locating them fail.

Glaring at the lion, Severus backs away gracefully until the feline stops its antics and lies down again.

*

The secret passage is windy and narrow and Ron hits his elbows more than once, sucking in a sudden breath to keep himself from crying out in pain. 

He wonders why he has never seen the storage rooms before, or whether anyone except for Filch ever has. If – no, when – he finds Harry and Hermione again, he will ask to check the Map. 

The end of the tunnel leads him to some sort of trap door, which opens easily enough. Climbing out, Ron blinks, trying to make sense of his surroundings in the darkness. 

“ _Lumos minima_ ,” he whispers eventually. He should have looked up a spell on night-time vision, really. 

He can’t believe his luck - the room he landed himself in is a pantry. Carefully listening for any noise that might indicate someone is aware of an intruder, Ron helps himself to some food. Fortunately, everything already has preservation charms on it since he himself has never mastered that one. Well, his mum is not a very good teacher, he muses. 

He digs in his pockets until he finds a few coins. It doesn’t cover the food by half but it is all he can manage right now. Promising he will pay the owner back, he leaves the Sickles and looks for an exit. 

*

Ron leaves the Hog’s Head through the back door without anyone noticing, then simply apparates to a forest he visited with his family a few years ago. It is remote enough to keep him from prying eyes and will make a good base for his search. 

Which he has no idea where to begin. 

*

The castle is empty, emptier than usual. Almost all students have decided to return home for the holidays, leaving behind a school void of life safe for the teachers. 

Weasley still hasn’t found Potter and Granger yet Dumbledore’s portrait remains optimistic. “When the time is right,” he says calmly while Snape is rolling his eyes. 

Christmas Day is a sad affair. In previous years, Severus was welcome to spend the holiday at Malfoy Manor if the family themselves weren’t otherwise occupied – for example with celebrating in Egypt under palm trees. 

This year though, he remains at Hogwarts with Slughorn and the Carrows. Trelawney has chosen to stay in her tower and the creature in his rooms. 

The Dark Lord has a tendency to ignore Christmas for which Severus is grateful. It wouldn’t do if Weasley found his friends and needed the sword and Severus wasn’t able to leave the Dark Lord’s side. 

It happens the next day. 

“Headmaster! They are camping in the Forest of Dean!” Phineas Nigellus starts shouting even before he is fully inside the portrait. “The Mudblood –“

“Do not use that word!”

“- the Granger girl, then, mentioned the place as she opened her bag and I heard her!”

“Good, very good!” the portrait of Dumbledore agrees. “Now, Severus, the sword! Do not forget that it must be taken under conditions of need and valour – and he must not know that you give it! If Voldemort should read Harry’s mind and see you acting for him –“

“I know,” Severus almost snaps, pulling aside his predecessor’s portrait revealing a hidden cavity holding the Sword of Gryffindor. 

“And you still aren’t going to tell me why it’s so important to give Potter the Sword?” 

“No, I don’t think so,” Dumbledore answers in an infuriatingly calm voice. “He will know what to do with it. And Severus, be very careful, they may not take kindly to your appearance after the George Weasley mishap –“

“Don’t worry, Dumbledore,” Severus shoots back, actively supressing an eye-roll, “I have a plan.”

He buttons up his travelling coat and leaves the room. It takes him thirty minutes to reach Hogsmeade from where he apparates to the Forest of Dean. Usually Severus detests the cold – too many memories of icy rooms; that and low temperatures are the enemy of every potion maker – yet tonight, it proves useful he decides as he banishes the sword to the bottom of a frozen lake. 

Weasley has come as well, a swift checking of the trace tells Severus. Adjusting his plan, Severus casts his Patronus, allowing himself one moment of nostalgic melancholy as he watches the doe tread on the forest’s ground before he sends the deer off to draw Weasley in and eventually to lead Potter to the sword. 

What transpires next makes Severus doubt whether Potter is as suited to fight the Dark Lord as Dumbledore keeps insisting on. Surely if one has acquired a strange magical object one will consider removing it before diving into a frozen lake to retrieve another powerful magical object. 

Daft Gryffindors. It shouldn’t come as such a surprise. 

Once the Weasley boy has saved Potter’s hide – probably not for the first time – Severus’ initial plan meant for him to leave. Yet curiosity wins out. Dumbledore might not want to tell him everything, though nothing can be said against finding out for himself. 

*

“Are – you – _mental_?” Ron doubts he has ever been so angry in his life. “Why the bloody hell didn’t you take this thing off before you dived?!” The strange locket is dangling from his hand. He might not know what it is, exactly, but judging by the way it tried to strangle Harry, it can’t be anything good. 

Harry blinks up at him through wet lashes. “It was y-you?” His teeth are clattering and they really need to warm him up, Ron thinks. 

“Well, yeah?”

“Y-you cast the doe?”

“What? No, of course not! I thought that was you doing it!”

“My Patronus is a stag.”

“Oh yeah. I thought it looked different. No antlers.”

Harry nods and bows down to put on a warm sweater and pick up a wand that doesn’t look anything like his. 

“How come you’re here?” Harry asks at last and Ron can finally dive into the explanation he has been rehearsing for the past few days. He knows there is a chance Harry will turn him away again and he is not going to risk that. 

“I went back to Hogwarts, which is hell, by the way, the Carrows are mental, really. A few of us started Dumbledore’s Army again but… You know, I kept thinking that you’re out there somewhere, fighting the real fight, because Dumbledore gave you a mission, right? I remember from the Order meeting in August…” He takes a deep breath. “Anyway, I was a daft git. Fred and George were pretty keen on drilling that point into my head. I might not like it, the thing with you and, y’know, blokes… But you’re still Harry, I guess. And I want to help. If,” he clears his throat, “you know. You still want me.”

Ron watches Harry’s reaction and is relieved when the anger dissipates little. It is still there, shimmering underneath the surface, yet apparently, five years of going through everything together can’t be erased by one year of him acting like a total moron. 

Slowly, Harry nods. “I guess we could use your help. But Ron… It won’t be back to normal, all right?”

“I know.” 

Harry considers him for a moment, probably trying to figure out if he is being completely honest. Well, Ron knows he bollocksed up; he is just glad Harry will give him a second change. 

Third one, actually. Or fourth? 

Whatever Harry sees in Ron’s face seems to be enough to convince him. “Good. You’ll need to apologise to Hermione, too.”

“Sure.” For good measure, he adds, “Blaise isn’t that bad, it turns out.” At Harry’s questioning glance, he explains, “He joined the DA at Hogwarts. I guess dating a Muggleborn does that to a Slytherin.”

That actually earns him a smile and Ron knows that, even though not everything might run smoothly from the beginning, he and Harry will be all right in the end. 

Well, and destroying a Horcrux together really welds people together, as it turns out. 

Ron is breathing heavily, sword in hand, staring at the broken locket. He just destroyed a piece of You-Know-Who’s soul, he realises. So this is what Harry and Hermione have been up to – soul hunting. 

Ron probably needs to sleep over the information that You-Know-Who split his soul in so many pieces but, all things considered it might not be the weirdest thing that has happened to Ron since he met Harry Potter. 

Well, the hardest is probably still to come: facing Hermione after having acted like a complete wanker throughout sixth year. 

Ron shudders yet gathers his courage and follows Harry back to the camp. 

*

In the shadows, hidden from the boys, Severus has to lean against a tree as realisation floods his mind. 

Horcruxes. 

It is obvious, really. A gruesome way to ensure one’s survival, indeed; yet Severus has always believed Horcruxes to be brilliant works of magic. 

With one last glance at Potter and Weasley to ensure they haven’t tripped over a branch and broken their necks, Severus disapparates. 

He has to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologise to vernie_klein for bringing Ron back since she wanted an anti-Ron fic. Yet since I fulfilled the prompt in part I, I decided it’s time to have Ron grovel, begging to come back (because I really love him dearly as a sidekick). Of course things won’t be all love, piece and harmony between the three of them but everything has to start somewhere ;) 
> 
> **EDIT 26-09-2015:** Thanks so much to everyone who has read this, left kudos and/or commented! It's incredibly motivating and has made me think of this fic often in the past months. I can safely say that I will be returning to this fic!


	6. Parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort’s war on Muggles has dire consequences for Ianto. Draco picks up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised many, many times over the course of the past _*coughs*_ three _*coughs*_ years, this fic has not been abandoned, and I proudly present: an update!   
>  I have no idea if anyone who has subscribed still cares, but my Muse does. Thanks to Fantastic Beasts, she felt inspired to return to the HP verse for a bit, and I had a lot of fun extending the 3k of this chapter that had already been written in 2013 before inspiration up and left. I'm currently writing chapters 8 and 9 :)
> 
> Huge kudos to [vernie_klein](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vernie_klein) for initial feedback, beta-services and much-needed cheering upon my return to this <3 This will be thoroughly Brit-picked as soon as the dear [Iryia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iriya) has the chance. 
> 
> Timeline note: All narrative strands will be in synch at the end of this chapter.  
> Bits of dialogue that are taken from Deathly Hallows are, obviously, not mine.

**_Swansea, end of October 1997_ **

When the deafening blast sounds across the bay, Draco is lounging in a chair near the counter, watching Ianto help Lilah pack away today’s shipment of coffee beans. 

All three of them as well as the four remaining customers in the shop jump at the noise and hurry out of the door immediately. There is smoke rising in the West, not even a kilometre away from them. 

“What happened?” Lilah sounds frightened. 

Before anyone can answer, another explosion has them duck instinctively. This time, the smoke is rising in the North. 

“That’s where the university is!” shrieks a woman next to Draco. 

“What was the first one?” her companion asks and she shrugs jerkily, shoulders trembling. 

Sirens wail in the distance, coming closer with every second and Draco exchanges glances with his friends. 

Then he sees it. The shape of a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth, glowing eerily in the sky above both explosion sites. 

“Draco, what is it?” he hears Ianto ask, clearly alarmed due to how Draco’s face probably lost its entire colour. 

“We need to go, _now_.”

“What, go where?”

“To our house. We don’t know what’s going on. This might not be over.” His voice is weaker than it has any right to be but it seems to have the intended effect. Ianto narrows his eyes but nods. 

Ten minutes later, Lilah has put up a sign proclaiming the shop closed due to an emergency and while she is safely within the walls of her own apartment above the coffee shop, Draco and Ianto race back to Port Tennant at high speed. 

“Mother,” Draco shouts as they barge through the front door. “Do you know what’s –“

Draco stops abruptly as he reaches the living room where his mother’s eyes are glued to the telly. A local news channel is already reporting. 

“So far nothing is known about these three assumed terrorist attacks,” the anchor tells them. “Emergency services are doing everything they can to keep the damage to a minimum; however, since the sites targeted were hospitals filled to capacity, officials presume there will be casualties.”

“Hospitals?” Ianto murmurs feebly. 

Narcissa nods. “Mount Pleasant North-West-bound and South-East-bound as well as the Swansea NHS Trust.”

Ianto sways dangerously and Draco moves his arm around the boy’s waist to steady him. Suddenly, between worrying about Death Eater activity so close to their safe house and wondering what the Dark Lord wants to accomplish by attacking hospitals in a small town in Wales, something gnaws at the corners of Draco’s mind. 

“Ianto,” he breathes out, “which hospital is your mother in?” 

*

Draco can do nothing but wait for news, worrying himself sick over his best friend. The entire situation is completely new to him – never before did he care enough about anyone to be in such distress when something happened to them, except perhaps for Harry. But Harry doesn’t count. 

And it isn’t even Ianto who might be injured, it is only his mother. Yet seeing Ianto hurt and worried did something to Draco’s chest and the feelings still confuse the bleeding hell out of him. 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed until their phone rings. Ianto is calling from his home, or rather, his former home. 

“The police have just confirmed it.” Ianto’s voice is thick and Draco can almost hear the tears that must be clouding the boy’s vision. “Mum was killed in the explosion.” A shaky breath. “I mean, she didn’t have that much time left, but still…”

“She didn’t deserve to die like that,” Draco hears himself saying, wondering when he developed bedside manner. Probably from watching too much telly. “I’m really sorry, Ianto.”

“Thanks. I guess I’ll stay here. Rhi is coming as well.” Which is a big deal since Ianto’s sister is living with a few students near the University and never comes to visit their father ever since their mother is in hospital. 

“Good. If you need anything….”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Ianto cuts off the line and Draco is left staring at the silent phone. 

It doesn’t take long until McGonagall’s head appears in their flames. 

“I can’t talk long,” she explains and Draco notices that it is a weekday and she has probably just returned from teaching classes. “From what we could gather, the attack wasn’t meant to draw your attention,” Draco feels relief course through his veins, “instead its intention was to unsettle the Muggles of Great Britain. We doubt this will be the last attack; and the first only coincidentally happened to take place in Swansea. There is no need to worry for your safety,” she assures them. “The Muggles are calling it a terrorist attack.”

Narcissa nods. “We heard.”

“I need to leave,” McGonagall hurriedly bids her farewells and the fire is empty once more. 

*

Draco is in the kitchen late that night nursing a cup of tea when the doorbell rings. He glances at the clock – almost midnight – and rushes to the door, fearing the worst. 

It is everything and more. Ianto is a bloody mess and for once Draco isn’t using it as a swear word. One of his eyes is swollen shut, his lip is bleeding from two places, there appears to be a large laceration at the back of his head and enough blood has spilt on his clothes to make Draco wonder how the boy is still standing. 

“You need a hospital!” he shouts but pulls Ianto inside all the same. 

“Don’t want a hospital,” Ianto explains, coughing and spraying blood and spit. “She died there.”

“All right, let’s go upstairs into the bathroom then.”

Draco recalls a small box called a first-aid kit residing in one of the cabinets there and after a bit of searching for it, he locates it. Ianto, meanwhile, has collapsed onto the toilet seat, breathing heavily. 

“Have you ever used a first-aid kit before?” 

Draco opens it and tries to make sense of what he needs. Bloody Muggles, why does health care have to be so damn complicated?

Ianto shakes his head weakly. “Never had one. Just,” another cough, “clean the wounds and put a plaster on it.”

“I doubt a mere plaster will help you,” he snaps, forgoing the kit and reaching for a fresh towel. He wets it in the basin and makes to clean Ianto’s face, which leaves blood all over the fabric but then again, they have house-elves who can scourgify anything clean. 

Draco unrolls bandages and applies the dressing to the wound on Ianto’s head first since it looks dangerous. Once the bandage has been wrapped around the boy’s head and fastened with tape, Draco leans back, strangely proud of his handiwork. 

He can do nothing but clean the lip and the eye and, after locating an eye pad in the kit, tend to the latter. 

“Where else are you hurt?” 

Ianto’s eyes are drooping and he sways on the toilet seat. 

“Ianto, I bloody swear, if you fall asleep on me I’ll carry you to the bed and undress you myself to find out what else is wrong!” 

“Bed is good idea,” he mumbles so softly Draco has problems understanding what he said. 

Suddenly, Draco realises that an unconscious Ianto might actually be a good thing, so he helps him up and positively drags him into their former guest room. 

Ianto goes out like a light the moment his body hits the mattress. 

“Liope!” Draco calls and the house-elf appears, bowing deeply. “I need you to check Ianto for wounds and tend to them. But don’t forget, he is a Muggle, so be careful not to heal him fully; it might arouse suspicion.”

“Of course, Master Draco,” she says. “May Liope fetch one of the others to help?”

“Yes, everything you need to make him better.”

For the next thirty minutes Draco watches three of his house-elves undress Ianto carefully and nurse his ills. Draco inhales sharply when he sees the fresh bruises littering Ianto’s torso and has to force himself to remain in the room and not seek out the wanker of a father and kill him in cold blood. No one would even care – the Dark Lord has taken over the Ministry, so a wizard should be able to kill a Muggle without having to fear persecution, Draco muses bitterly. 

“Master,” Liope pulls him out of his thoughts, “the boy has broken ribs and small internal injuries. We can mend them by magic, if you agree.” 

Draco nods without hesitation. “Just don’t remove the bruises or he’ll get suspicious.”

In the end, Ianto is wearing nothing but his pants and metres of bandages. 

“The boy is taken care of,” Liope concludes. “Liope thinks he will need medication for the pain, Master Draco.”

“Yes, we have some and I’ll buy more tomorrow.” He considers the three elves. “I need you to watch him during the night. You can take turns and sleep but one of you needs to keep an eye on Ianto at all times. When he wakes, don’t let him see you but wake me immediately. That will be all.”

With a bow and a _crack_ , two of the elves are gone again and Draco tears himself away from Ianto and crawls into his own bed. 

*

Draco doesn’t get much sleep that night; instead he asks one of the elves for tea and takes over the vigil at Ianto’s bedside. 

His thoughts run in strange circles during the time he spends next to the bed. Mostly he rages mentally at the father and how he could hurt his son like this but somehow, his mind jumps to a day well over a year ago, a day when a man branded his skin and his father was proud. 

Draco wants to hit something, preferably himself yet that won’t do any good. He shouldn’t think ill of his father when he has played a substantial part in the man’s death. 

His mother sends for him around eight so he tasks Liope with watching his friend and ventures into the kitchen. 

“What happened? The elves are saying Ianto was hurt.” To anyone else, Narcissa would look calm and composed, yet Draco sees the worry in her eyes. 

He nods, refilling his cup from the pot. “I’m sure it was his father. He had broken ribs and internal bleeding – but the elves fixed it, it’s all right, only bruises left now,” he adds when his mother gasps. 

“Why would a parent do something like this to a child?” 

“Why would a parent let the Dark Lord mark their son?” It just spills out of Draco before he has a chance to stop his mouth from moving. 

His mother jerks away from the table as if slapped, hurt quickly flickering over her face before it is gone again, her features schooled and controlled. 

“You can’t compare the situations, Draco. Ianto’s father is a vile Muggle who has no reason to hurt his son. Yet we… We had no choice.”

“Of course you had a choice!” Draco shouts, anger spilling out of him explosively, all the thoughts that have been forming just underneath the surface suddenly coming to light. “He came back and called and father answered! Harry told me all about what happened that night in fourth year!” 

It had been one of their more serious conversations. Draco had asked and Harry had answered. Afterwards they had brilliant thank-Merlin-you’re-alive sex. 

Narcissa breathes in deeply, clutching her mug tighter. “At that point he thought it was the right thing to do. He thought the Dark Lord’s return would be our salvation.”

“And what did you think, mother?”

She swallows. “I am – I was – his wife. I was duty-bound to follow him.”

“And when He decided to mark me? Father was in Azkaban, you had every right to decline –” 

“Don’t pretend to be self-righteous now, Draco,” his mother snaps and by her tone, he knows he went too far. “You _wanted_ the Mark, or need I remind you of how honoured you were? Of course, I saw that you were frightened but above all you were so eager to please the Dark Lord. Never forget that and never reproach me for choosing the path that would ensure my family’s survival when you did the very same by confiding in Harry Potter.”

Draco falls silent immediately, unable to argue with his mother’s words. 

Liope saves him from prolonged awkward moments, however. 

“The Muggle boy is awake now, Master Draco.”

“Thank you. I’ll bring up some tea and water.”

The elf hands him a tray with everything, including the pain medication Draco looked for earlier. 

“Morning,” Draco greets Ianto who winces with every movement. 

“Please tell me you bring pain meds.” 

Draco hands him the bottle of pills and places the glass of water on the night table as well as the tea. 

“How are you feeling?”

Another wince. “Everything hurts. Especially my head.”

“I’ll get you more drugs, no worries.”

Ianto sips his tea gingerly, though blowing on the liquid seems to hurt his split lips. The swelling around his eye has decreased a little yet it still looks awful. 

“What happened?”

“I guess ‘I ran into a door’ won’t do?”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were quite that flexible. Running into a door from several angles simultaneously takes skill, I dare say.”

Ianto laughs but it sends him into a coughing fit that clearly exhausts the teen. 

“What do you think happened,” he eventually says, his tone defensive. 

“Your father took his grief out on you.” 

“Stating the obvious doesn’t suit you, Mallory.”

“Pretending this doesn’t affect you doesn’t suit you, Jones. “

Ianto grimaces and takes another sip from his tea. “How bad is it?”

“My estimate? Mostly superficial wounds which will take time to heal.” Draco may be quoting his house-elves. 

“Time I don’t have! I have school! And work!”

“Your mother died yesterday, Ianto! And look in a mirror, will you? Your boss will send you right back home when you show up there. That means no school and no work until you fell better, is that understood?”

Ianto glares at him, obviously battling emotions regarding his mother, yet he doesn’t break down. He snorts instead. “Jesus, Draco. Never become a nurse, all right?”

Draco grins. “I won’t. But I’m yours for today.”

“Kill me now,” he groans though there is no heat behind it.

*

Ianto spends most of the day in bed, sleeping for long periods of time. Draco calls the coffee shop to explain the situation and thankfully, his mother’s death is enough to warrant at least a week off work, more if necessary. Lilah’s parents are very understanding.

Draco helps Ianto limp down the stairs for dinner that night after which they take up residence on the sofa to watch the telly, yet the doorbell rings before they can agree on a programme. 

Lilah is at the door with a box of pastries from the coffee shop and flowers. 

“Lilah?”

“Hullo, sorry, I’m looking for Ianto and no one will open the door at his place, so I thought he might be here,” she explains. “I brought cake? And the flowers are from my parents.”

Draco nods slowly, frantically trying to think of a way to make her leave without sounding rude. He doubts Ianto wants her to see him like this. “I’ll see if he’s up for visitors, all right? Can you wait a moment?”

He closes the door before she can answer, hurrying into the living room. Ianto looks at him questioningly – or Draco thinks he is; it is hard to tell when half his face is swollen. 

“Lilah’s here. With cake. And flowers. She’s looking for you.”

“She can’t see me like this!” 

“Well, what am I supposed to tell her?”

“That I want to be alone?”

“Ianto, these bruises won’t be gone within a few days. She’ll see them eventually.”

“What will she think of me?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “She’ll think, ‘poor Ianto’ and bring you more cake and try to heal you with oral sex.”

Ianto splutters - it will never cease to amuse Draco how easily the bloke is flustered. One would think after spending the night with Lilah he would be less of a blushing virgin. 

“Come on, Ianto, let me invite her in.”

“You just don’t want to deal with the fuss she’s going to make.”

“Well, I’ve been playing nurse all day –“

“- all I’ve done is sleep!”

“Not the point.”

Ianto glares – again, it isn’t totally clear if he is actually glaring – yet in the end, he relents. 

The ensuing drama is big when Lilah catches her first glimpse of Ianto after one of his father’s drunken rages and Draco has to physically hold her back from seeking out the man and hurt him, which she promises to do in rather colourful language. Draco can’t release her since he doesn’t allow himself going after Ianto’s father either, though eventually everything calms down and they share a delicious pumpkin pie. 

“So, I take it our plans for tomorrow are cancelled?” Lilah asks, looking from her boyfriend to Draco. 

“Plans?” 

“Halloween! The party.”

“Oh.” Ianto casts his eyes down. “I doubt I’ll be up to anything other than bad horror films on the telly.”

“Let’s rent a video then,” Lilah suggests, no sign of disappointment and Draco has to admit Ianto might have chosen well. 

“Oh, I totally forgot!” Lilah sits up straighter once the dishes have been taken to the kitchen where house-elves will clean them once the ground floor is free of Muggles. “A woman was in the shop this afternoon, said she’s your sister.”

“Rhi? What’s she doing there?”

“She was looking for you. I didn’t tell her anything, but I honestly just thought you’d gone by Draco’s for a bit.”

“She say what she wanted?”

Lilah shrugs. “I guess something to do with the funeral.”

“Oh, yeah. The funeral.”

Draco tenses, realising with a start he has no clue about Muggle burial rituals. He hopes they aren’t dissimilar to wizarding ones, though. With a pang, he remembers that his father never received a proper funeral and perhaps never will. 

“If she comes by again, can I tell her where to find you?” Lilah asks tentatively and Draco holds his breath waiting for Ianto’s reply. 

The relationship between Rhi and Ianto is not the best since Ianto took a little longer to see what a wanker their father is while Rhiannon left home as soon as she could afford to. They aren’t close and have never been on good terms. 

Ianto glances at Draco as if asking for permission and Draco raises an eyebrow, trying to convey ‘It’s your choice’. 

With a heavy sigh, the boy nods. 

*

Halloween is surprisingly hard for Draco to endure. 

It’s not even an anniversary of any kind, so he doesn’t know why this day is any different. All that happened year ago was him getting caught by Filch and dragged to Slughorn’s party where Snape took him back to the dungeons, though not without prying like the nosy bastard that he is. Draco can still remember Harry staring at him as if he hadn’t seen him all school year, standing there in his handsome dress robes looking dashing as always. 

With that memory, more recollections surface, mostly of Harry but also from times spent with his friends in the Slytherin common room, laughing at the expense of Crabbe or Goyle or both. Not for the first time, Draco longs to be back at Hogwarts, back before it all started but preferably with his memories intact. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Lilah’s voice pulls Draco back to the present. “You look sad.” 

“Time travel,” Draco responds with a grin that feels more like a grimace and probably looks like it, too. 

Ianto definitely chose well: Lilah bites her lip but holds her tongue, and when Ianto makes a passionate case for watching Back To The Future even if it isn’t gory, Lilah overrules him without so much as a covert glance in Draco’s direction. 

*

“Draco,” Narcissa says, a question in her tone. “What shall we do for Christmas?”

He steps back from the cauldron, pulling off his protective glasses as he does so. “Christmas?”

“We should host a dinner. It’s a pity this house doesn’t have a ball room but I’m certain we can fit a small gathering into the dining room. Patricia and her husband, the Pearsons, and of course Delilah and her parents as well. Maybe Ianto’s sister wants to attend – what do you think?”

To Draco, it sounds rather tedious, but the relationship between Narcissa and him is still healing from his outburst before Halloween. So Draco lends his support, offers to rope Ianto into buying some decorations – since magical ones are out of the question, unfortunately – and leaves his mother to do all the work. 

“Our last Christmas was bloody awful,” Draco explains to Ianto later that week. “She needs the distraction.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I’m distracted all right.”

It’s not a lie: Between brewing potions for the Order and researching Horcruxes and their weaknesses, Draco is a busy wizard in hiding. And if he is awake reading until the wee hours, no one will notice that he would have had difficulties sleeping otherwise. 

_Harry is still Undesirable Number One. He hasn’t been caught yet._

It becomes his mantra throughout the season. 

*

“What are you writing, mate?” Ron asks somewhere to Harry’s right. 

That he’s here means the wards are in place and all three of them will be able to sleep easily tonight. Maybe – if Hermione doesn’t decide to add another lecture to the black eye she gave Ron two hours ago. At least she isn’t turning her scorn on Harry… who by now does see that diving into the lake while wearing the locket might have been a truly daft idea. 

“Postcard.”

“That’s a Muggle thing, eh?” 

Harry blinks up at his… whatever Ron is. Ally? 

“Compulsory Muggle studies,” Ron says with an awkward shrug. “Seems a bit of the pile of bollocks they fed us had some truth in it.”

Harry just nods and goes back to the note on the card. 

A part of him hates the tension in the air, but a darker, more vicious part is glad for it, glad that Hermione’s anger is so blatant. Harry still knows Ron – the bloke is sincere in his regret, so they’ll come together as a trio again at some point. But until then he’d be lying if he said it didn’t fill him with a certain kind of _schadenfreude_ to watch Ron grovel, mostly by taking all the annoying tasks off Harry and Hermione’s hands.

_‘Did you eat a thesaurus for breakfast, Potter?’_ is what Draco would say, were he here. 

The thought makes Harry chuckle. 

“Oh.” Ron averts his eyes. “You’re writing him.” 

“Not regularly,” Harry rushes to say. “Too dangerous. But…”

Ron nods. “Yeah, mate, I get it. Got to let him know you’re still alive.”

“And one Horcrux down.”

It takes several seconds for the implications to register. When they do, Harry sees the anger rise in Ron’s eyes and the other boy forcefully stifling it. 

“You told Malfoy,” Ron manages through gritted teeth. 

“He’s trustworthy.”

“You so sure of that?”

“I’d trust him with my life.” Harry swallows. 

Ron’s mouth falls open. “Blimey – for real?”

There are many things Harry could say in response but he keeps silent in favour of finishing his message. 

Ron doesn’t move, apparently deep in thought, until Hermione returns. The Tales of Beedle the Bard are cradled against her chest and her expression means she has a plan.

_No rest for the wicked, Horcrux-hunting forces of the Light – not even on Christmas,_ Harry muses as he signs the postcard. 

*

Sirius rolls his eyes as he sees his partner’s hands clench and unclench at his side. 

“It’ll be fine, Moony. He’s wandless, that Malfoy kid made us a nice potion to suppress the punter’s magic, we tied him up tight and charmed the room locked – Yaxley’s not going to escape if we leave the house for a few hours.”

“I know, I know,” Remus huffs. “I just…”

“Worry.” Sirius smiles indulgently. “It’s your default setting. But come on, it’ll be fun. Christmas dinner at the cottage, presents for everyone who’s not dead or in hiding, and we get to be the bearer of good news.”

Remus’s eyes are alert immediately. “What news?”

With a smirk, Sirius retrieves the coin from his pocket. “Harry messaged me. Ron found them and we’re one Horcrux down. They finished what Regulus started.”

His partner inhales deeply before stepping closer. Sirius slings an arm around his waist almost out of reflex. 

One day, Harry will probably yell at him for telling Remus about Voldemort’s Horcruxes when Harry himself didn’t after sixth year. Not that Sirius doesn’t deserve it – he does – but all things considered it was worth it to split the worry. Besides, hiding what he was researching was becoming ever more difficult for Sirius. 

Remus eventually clears his throat. “You sound quite happy about Ron’s return. I figured…”

“Oh, I still hate that wanker for being a spineless little git,” Sirius agrees. “But the fact that he saved Harry’s life and got them the Sword of Gryffindor sort of…”

“Puts things into perspective?” Remus finishes for him, a smile blooming on his features. 

The relief finally hits Sirius as he sees it mirrored back at him in Remus’s eyes and for a second they simply hold each other close. 

It’s moments like this that Sirius almost understands his house arrest. Allowed to roam freely and fight at will, his name would probably have already been mentioned on Potterwatch. As it is, he may be bored out of his skull most days, but he gets to actually _be_ on Potterwatch, help the love of his life, witness his godson’s quest and, from time to time, annoy their prisoner of war, Yaxley. 

Remus pulls back first, breaking the moment. “Let’s bring Molly the good news.”

*

The hose is decked in boughs of silver-green holly, the smell of cinnamon heavy in the air while Narcissa is humming carols as she oversees the elves preparing the dining room.

It takes Draco back to a time when life was easy; a carefree childhood without wars or Dark Lords, when all that counted was how many presents he would get and if he could convince his father to join him in a snowball fight. 

There will be no snowball fight this year unless Draco helps it along with magic, since South Wales has rather mild winters with heavy rain. December 25th brings much-needed sunshine as well as epiphanies for Draco, who spent more time obsessing over finding the right presents than he would have ever deemed possible. 

Presents for Muggles – his Muggle best friend and said best friend’s girlfriend, to be precise. 

Narcissa notices, of course, but rather than ignoring the development she reaches out for him after he has placed the parcels underneath their beautiful tree. He is at a loss for words when he realises his mother is initiating a hug. Not that he could have spoken if he knew what to say, considering how tight his throat feels. 

“Oy, didn’t we say to stop at one?” 

Narcissa and Draco don’t jump apart at Ianto’s voice, which might be the most telling sign of how much the recent months have changed them. 

“The additional two are rather self-serving on my account,” Draco explains. “They hardly count.”

“Bloody posh boy.”

“Language, Ianto,” Narcissa admonishes and Draco laughs at the Welsh kid’s blush until the doorbell announces the arrival of their guests. 

Lilah’s parents are as sociable as their daughter, fitting in with the Smiths and the Pearsons seamlessly. Rhiannon, Ianto’s sister, is also quite versed in Muggle small talk – an art Draco has gradually mastered – yet somewhat boring. She dreams of finding a partner and settling down. Starting a family is her ambition. 

Draco wants to say, _Let’s see if you survive the next year,_ but doesn’t. 

Narcissa had given her permission for Delilah to stay the night, so after the food has been devoured, leftovers packaged and handed to parting guests, after Narcissa kissed Draco on his forehead as she said goodnight, Draco returns to his room alone and somewhat melancholy. 

At least until he spies the postcard on his pillow. A postcard that wasn’t there when he left to go downstairs.

“Harry,” Draco gasps as he takes in the front image – Gryffindor red background with the white silhouette of a decorated Christmas tree and ‘Seasonal greetings’ splayed next to it. 

He almost trips over his feet in his rush to get to the bed and flip the card over. 

_Dear Draco,_  
_I would have so much to say but we both know the risks involved. I just couldn’t let this holiday pass without letting you know we’re all safe – all three of us. He’s not forgiven, but you will be the last to deny someone a second chance I think._  
_Thank you so much for your present – it’s proving very useful._  
_Stay safe and take care,_  
_H._  
_PS: Another one down._

Draco lets himself fall onto his back on the bed and stares up at the familiar scrawl, re-reading it until he could recite it backwards. 

Weasley is back. The nagging sense of suspicion is dwarfed by small ounces of relief mixed in with a victorious feeling regarding Harry’s post-scriptum. There is strength in numbers after all, and a Weasley who needs to prove his worth might be even more valuable than one who has always been at Harry’s side. 

That night, Draco finally manages to fall asleep at a decent hour, the postcard lying next to his pillow and a smile tugging at his lips. 

*

**_Somewhere near Ottery St Catchpole, six weeks later_ **

“You’re my only hope.”

Harry’s stomach plummets and his breath catches in his throat. 

“They were angry, you see, about what I’ve been writing. So, they took her. They took my Luna.”

The three of them can but stare as Mr Lovegood approaches Harry, who stands frozen in horror as the man whispers, “But it’s really you they want.” 

Harry pulls the hand down as gently as he can. “Who took her, sir?”

He can see the exact moment Mr Lovegood decides to speak the name but is unable to stop it before he does. 

Then, there is chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did! If you did, that means you’re still keeping tabs on this fic after all this time, and I would LOVE to get a life sign of any kind from you.  
> Your thoughts on the update would also be greatly appreciated, for the record =) 
> 
> Chapter 7 is finished and will follow on Wednesday.


	7. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t thank you all enough for this warm welcome back! It honestly exceeded my wildest hopes… So glad you are still with me, even after all this time <3 
> 
> We’re entering a patch of “alternate canon” territory where I have to walk the fine line between recounting too much of canon and recounting too little… Hope the pacing still works for y’all!  
> Also, some lines are quoted verbatim from Deathly Hallows and not mine.

Harry will only ever remember flashes of the hours that follow. 

Soft moss underneath his feet as he runs. Twigs breaking, the sound disproportionally deafening in the quiet forest. Hermione and Ron, running with him, dispersing and crossing paths again and again. 

A stinging curse, distorting his features. 

Malfoy Manor, weighed down by the purpose it has been assigned. White peacocks in the gardens walking with bowed heads. 

Bellatrix Lestrange’s eyes, alight with insanity. “We’d have Lucius or Draco identify you, but, well.” She tilts her head with an exaggerated pout. “You stole them from us, didn’t you? Him and my sister?”

When Harry doesn’t speak, she slaps him. It stings. 

“We can call Snape to identify him,” someone says. Avery, Harry’s mind supplies. 

Bellatrix answers with a hiss. “No, not him! He’ll take all the credit… Let’s see… get the creature.” 

Griphook knows it’s him – Harry sees it in his expression – but feigns ignorance. 

Bellatrix rages, throws a Crucio at the goblin that contorts his limbs in unnatural ways before dooming Harry and Ron to the cellar. 

“I’ll have myself a little talk with this one, girl to girl.”

Harry will never forget the panic in Hermione’s eyes, nor her screams that filter down from above. 

They didn’t take his pouch, but it takes Luna pointing it out to remember. Harry sends one of the emergency codes he and Sirius agreed upon. Ron spews obscenities through the grated door for endless minutes until none other than Dobby appears with a loud _crack_. 

“Where shall Dobby take them, Harry Potter?” 

He makes a split-second decision, producing a slip of paper that McGonagall handed him what feels like a lifetime ago. 

The elf reads the address and nods. “Dobby will return immediately and help Harry Potter get his friend!” 

For a moment, hope blooms in Harry’s chest. 

He should have known better. 

*

“Remind me again why I deigned to help you?” 

“Because the sooner I get this done, the sooner we can watch the film we rented,” Ianto explains without looking up from his work. “And since you’re missing out on school with being in Witness Protection and all, this might actually do you some good.”

Draco massages his temples. Muggle coursework is threatening to give him a headache no potion will be able to cure. Especially coursework on Muggle history. Who knew they had their own version of Grindelwald? 

“Are you done yet? I need the summary for my outline.”

Heaving a sigh, Draco recounts why this Staufenberg bloke failed in his epic assassination attempt on Muggle Grindelwald, then gets up to make tea. 

“Wait, we aren’t done yet!” Ianto calls after him. 

Draco whirls around in the doorframe leading to the kitchen. “No, but I for one need a break, and I’d like to see you try and stop me. It’s not even my project! And it’s Saturday!”

“Yeah, but –”

Draco never discovers how Ianto wanted to finish that sentence because a loud _crack_ tears through the air and makes them both flinch. 

“What was that?” Ianto gasps. 

It has been a long time since Draco heard that particular sound, but he immediately recognises it as someone apparating. 

“It came from the yard,” is all Draco says, already crossing the living room and rushing towards the back door. 

By the time he spies the two figures on the grass, there is another _crack_ and two additional shapes appear. Two eerily familiar shapes. Draco can see there is blood. 

He has a split second to determine how to handle this situation. 

Draco spins around, almost colliding with Ianto. He grabs his friend by the shoulders and looks him right in the eye. 

“Ianto, there’s something I have been hiding from you. I promise I’ll explain everything in greater detail at some point, but right now I need your help. All right?”

All the other boy manages is a nod, his eyes wide as saucers. 

Draco takes a deep breath. “I’m a wizard. I can do magic. There’s an entire world out there you have no clue about, but that world’s in trouble. That’s why these people are here.”

“W-Which people?”

Draco nods towards the yard. “These people. I need you to fetch the wooden crate underneath my bed – and the first aid supplies. Bring them to the living room, then help where you can. I’ll get them inside. Got it?”

Ianto’s answering nod is jerky yet sincere. 

Draco dashes outside, not quite running but it’s a close call. His eyes immediately find Harry, crouched on the ground and cradling something in his arms. A house-elf. Judging by the way the boy’s shoulders are shaking, a rather _dead_ house-elf. 

He didn’t expect a goblin to be with them, or Lovegood or Ollivander for that matter. Right now, it’s not important. 

“You need to get inside,” Draco says in lieu of a greeting. 

Granger is bleeding, the old wandmaker shaky on his feet. Lovegood’s features are gaunt and smudged with dirt but she is the only one to react with anything but anger. 

“Mr Ollivander? We need to get inside,” she tells the man softly. “Will you help me prop him up, Draco?” 

His eyes swivel towards Harry, who has yet to tear his attention from the elf, before nodding at the girl and helping Ollivander inside. It is only a few metres and once they reach the living room, Ianto is already there. 

The boy gulps, then winces when he looks over Draco’s shoulder. Granger’s arm is still bleeding. 

Ianto grabs some supplies and pushes an armchair around. “Here you go, Miss. I have bandages.”

Together, Lovegood and Draco lower Ollivander onto the sofa. In his peripheral vision, he spies Weasley helping the goblin into a chair and Ianto’s eyes widen at the sight. 

“Kitchen’s through there,” Draco tells Lovegood, “with tea and biscuits. I’ll check on…” 

He trails off but all Lovegood does is smile up at him. 

“Thank you, Draco. You’re a good host.”

Draco tries to return the smile though it proves in vain. He is half-inclined to run outside again but forces his pace to slow and summons a fluffy pillow on his way outside. 

He stops about a metre and a half away from Harry. 

It’s hard to believe he is actually seeing him, that this isn’t a figment of his imagination. However, every time Draco so much as dared think about how their next meeting would play out, Harry was always happy – high on victory, not a care in the world. 

The young man kneeling in the grass is a far cry from happy. Dried tears on his cheeks reflect the last rays of dusk. His hair is even more of a mess than Draco remembers and he looks thinner than Draco ever saw him. There is a deep woe to his touch where his hands clutch the house-elf’s lifeless body. 

With a start, Draco realises that it’s Dobby lying there. His old elf. The only one who ever really listened to him. 

Draco’s throat feels tight, all of a sudden. 

Bracing himself, he takes a step forward. Then another. He goes into a crouch and holds out the pillow. The fabric covering it is a royal blue. 

“You,” Draco starts, but his voice cracks. He coughs. “You can put him on this.”

Harry raises his head slowly. Their gazes lock, but whatever world-stopping euphoria Draco expected to stretch between them never comes. 

Harry nods briskly, then places Dobby onto the pillow. He sits back on his hunches, looking about as if he only just noticed his surroundings. 

Draco clears his throat again. There are so many things he wants to say – all of them are fighting inside his head, yet what slips out is, “You look like death warmed over, Potter.” 

It shocks a laugh out of Harry, then another. Before Draco knows what’s happening, Harry’s entire body is shaking with broken laughter and he can’t contain himself any more. Draco sweeps in and pulls Harry close, buries his face in the other boy’s neck and breathes in the scent of him, of blood and sweat and magic, of forests and desperation and something that tastes of _home_. 

Harry eventually pulls back with a wet intake of breath. 

“Bloody hell, I’ve missed you, Draco.”

And _there_ it is, that world-stopping moment, unfolding between them and swallowing them both whole. The first time Draco feels Harry’s lips against his again makes his pulse race and his mind blank out. 

The kiss would have gone on forever if it hadn’t been for someone’s pointed harrumph.

They break apart and Draco blinks up at Ianto quizzically. 

“Uh, the one with the knife wound? Hermione?” Ianto stammers. “She’s asking for some herbs. Some not in the crate?” 

“I have some. Uh.” He looks from Harry to Ianto. “Ianto, this is Harry. Harry, this is Ianto. A, uh, friend of mine. A Muggle friend.”

“Muggle?” Ianto echoes. 

“Non-magical,” Draco explains. 

“Aye. And what’s the small man? He’s not human, is he?” 

This time it’s Harry who explains, “Goblin.” 

“And, uh… who was the little chap?” 

Harry’s expression falls immediately. “His kind is called house-elves. He saved all our lives.”

For the first time, Draco notices the knife on the ground, covered in blood. His own freezes in his veins.

He knows that weapon. 

“Bellatrix did this,” he gasps. “Did she catch you?” 

“It’s a long story,” Harry says, averting his eyes. Draco fears for the worst. 

“Uh, the herb-thingy?” Ianto reminds him. “I can help Harry into the house.”

After checking with Harry and receiving a brief nod in return as well as a gentle squeeze of his hand, Draco climbs to his feet. There are green stains on his jeans now and he vanishes them with a wave of his hand before entering the living room. 

Everyone’s heads spin towards him immediately. 

At least the only one meeting his gaze with obvious disdain is Weasley. Draco ignores him and looks to Granger instead. 

“I’ll get you some dittany. I should have enough additional Pepper Up for everyone.” 

He is quick about it, carrying another small crate with a selection of vials back into the room only five minutes later. He finds Harry pacing in front of the terrace door, Ianto pouring tea for everyone, and Granger holding her arm. 

It is blatant that Weasley wants to argue, or question if Draco’s potions are indeed safe for them to drink, but Lovegood’s carefree gratitude and enthusiasm shut him up better than any spell probably could have. 

“So,” Harry says at length once everyone’s vials have been emptied and Granger is rubbing a tincture on her wounds that Draco prepared quickly, “you befriended a Muggle?”

“Shut it, Potter.” 

Harry’s eyes are still dark with grief but the twinkle in the corners doesn’t bode well, so Draco quickly, continues, “Aren’t there more pressing matters to worry about?”

“No, please,” Granger cuts in. “I for one am rather curious. How did this happen?”

She looks from Draco to Ianto, who is a lot more inclined to explaining the situation. 

“Saved this blundering fool from some kids, once. Draco was practically walking about with a sign that said, ‘Rob me! I’m posh!’ Then I got him to pay me to be his friend,” Ianto adds with a smirk. 

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” Weasley mumbles, loud enough for everyone to hear. 

To Draco’s great surprise, Ianto glares at the ginger. “But over time I found out he’s actually the bestest friend you could wish for. No need to pay me anymore.”

Granger’s face is doing something strange, so Draco chances a glance at Harry who has stopped his pacing and is fixing Draco with a soft look he last saw in some Muggle romance film. 

Draco has to avert his eyes, cheeks colouring. 

“Uh, so,” Ianto continues, with a lot less confidence. “You’re all witches? Or wizards?”

“And a goblin,” the creature adds testily – though Draco suspects his tone is mostly due to the Skele-Gro coursing through his body. 

Introductions are made, vague explanations given if only to give everyone a chance to take a breather and prevent Ianto from getting in the way later on. Draco can almost _feel_ the sorrow in Harry’s veins and it’s making him tense himself. 

He breathes out at length. “Well. International Statute of Secrecy broken, bones and skin on the mend. What now, Harry?”

Green eyes dart towards the elf’s corpse immediately. 

“I want to bury him. Without magic.” 

If Harry expected anyone to argue, he needs to reconsider. Granted, a year ago, Draco wouldn’t have understood his motivation but today, burying the house-elf that gave his life to save yours doesn’t merely strike Draco as a Harry thing to do – it’s the _right_ thing to do. 

Father is probably turning in his grave, Draco thinks bitterly. Out loud, he says, “I’ll see about a spade.”

He refrains from calling upon their house-elves in everyone’s presence yet does not want to keep them from the eventual ceremony. Draco almost offered Harry his help in digging but thought better of it. The gratitude in Harry’s eyes is more rewarding than it has any right to be. 

“You’re utterly besotted, mate, aren’t you?” 

“Shut up, Ianto.”

“Oh no, I’m not letting this go, Draco – so you’re in magical witness protection and your boyfriend is some sort of Neo fighting the forces of evil in a war I never even knew was going on?”

Draco gives him a flat look. Ianto holds up his hands. 

“Oy, I’m new to all this shite. And why do they all look like they hate you?”

With a groan, Draco makes to refill the kettle. His mother will return shortly and she will require tea to stomach this recent development. Meaning that their home has turned into a halfway house for Undesirables. 

“Because they do. Or used to. I wasn’t very nice in school.”

“Until Harry snogged some decency into you?”

Draco opens his mouth to argue but alas, it is a rather apt summary. 

“I’d expect him to be all over you, though,” Ianto continues. “You lot don’t strike me as particularly couple-y.” He dismisses Draco’s arched eyebrow with a wave of his hand. “You know what I mean, mate.”

“Yes. However, Harry and I have never been big on public displays of affection. We’re polite that way.”

“Come on, Lilah and I –”

“Are absolutely obnoxious to be around, and you know it.”

The sound of a key turning in the front door saves Ianto from coming up with a witty reply. Draco squares his shoulders. Explaining to his mother why Harry Potter is digging a grave for their former house-elf or why there is a goblin in one guestroom and a wandmaker in another will be quite interesting. 

*

“But I thought we were looking for places You-Know-Who’s been, places he’s done something important?” Weasley asks, forehead wrinkling. “Was he ever inside the Lestrange’s vault?”

Draco rolls his eyes and leans against the hallway wall, unsurprised at the dimwit’s confusion. 

“I don’t know whether he was ever inside Gringotts,” Harry says. “He never had any gold to put there because nobody left him anything. He would have seen the bank from the outside, though, the first time he ever went to Diagon Alley. I think he would have envied anyone who had a key to a Gringotts vault. He’d have seen it as a real symbol of belonging to the Wizarding world.”

“Besides,” Draco chimes in. “Auntie Bellatrix and Rudolphus have always been some of his most devoted followers. The Dark Lord trusted them.”

Harry nods at him. A hand comes up to rub his scar. Draco doubts he is even aware of doing it. 

“I don’t think he told Bellatrix it was a Horcrux, though. He never told Lucius about the diary.” Draco can’t hide the flinch the reminder evokes. “He probably told her it was a treasured possession and asked her to place it in her vault.”

“Blimey,” Ron whispers. “You really understand him.”

“Bits of him,” Harry agrees. “Bits… I just wish I’d understood Dumbledore as much. But we’ll see. Come on – Ollivander now.”

Draco trails after the trio, keeps to the background as they question the wandmaker about the Elder Wand but the history lesson fails to keep his attention with the echo of Harry’s voice still rattling inside his head. 

_Bits of him… Bits…_

Something gnaws at the back of Draco’s mind, yet he cannot quite put his finger on it. He feels like he is missing something, something big, even though he has all necessary information at his disposal. 

Then Harry is rushing from the room, Weasley and Granger hot on his heels. Draco catches up with them near Dobby’s grave, underneath a beautiful willow tree that is at the receiving end of all sun hours the city has to offer. 

Something is going on – Harry seems to be fluctuating in and out of awareness, as though he isn’t completely there with them. 

“ _Dumbledore_ had the Elder Wand?” Ron says, startled and angry. “But then – where is it now?”

“At Hogwarts –”

“But then, let’s go!” Ron urges them. “Harry, let’s go and get it before he does!”

Draco expects Harry’s “It’s too late for that”; is unsurprised that Harry knows the Dark Lord is at Hogwarts this very moment, plundering the old man’s grave for the weapon. He doesn’t really care – all he cares about is the pain Harry is trying to conceal and the way he grows ever more unsteady on his feet. 

Draco is there to catch him when he sinks to his knees, holds him as he explains, in stuttered gasps, that Dumbledore didn’t want Harry to have to wand but hunt the Horcruxes. 

Horcruxes, not Hallows. 

Draco remains where he is; even though the graver chill that comes with nightfall is creeping into his clothes and his knees are starting to ache from the position. It takes several minutes until Harry’s features even out, most of the pain vanishing. 

“I’ll stay with him,” he tells Granger and Weasley. “Go inside. Wash up before dinner or something.”

“I’m not leaving him alone with –”

“Come now, Ron,” Granger interrupts, already pulling at the ginger’s sleeve. 

Harry’s arms tighten around his torso and Draco responds in kind. 

“Noble decision,” he whispers after drawn-out minutes. “Giving up on the wand.”

Harry pulls back enough to be able to meet Draco’s gaze. “Figured you’d lecture me on squandered chances, or something.”

“I’d be the last one to recommend taking something from the Dark Lord that he has set his eyes on this vehemently. Removing his wand won’t hurt him – destroying Horcruxes will.”

It is a marvel how much Draco’s validation seems to affect the other boy. The tension bleeds from Harry’s shoulders and some of the consternation disappears from his eyes. 

Harry doesn’t reply verbally. He steals a kiss, a soft touch of lips against Draco’s that send sparks to his brain and leaves him craving more. So he takes, leans in again, coaxes Harry’s mouth open but doesn’t rush anything. It has been months since they were in each other’s company and Draco wants to cherish every single second of it. 

They stay like this, kneeling on the cold ground and snogging like they have all the time in the world, until Ianto fetches them for dinner. 

*

Draco has attended his fair share of awkward meals, and while those that included the Dark Lord will forever eclipse all others, this first dinner at their safehouse comes frighteningly close. 

If it weren’t for Ianto’s questions about the magical world, seeped in childish glee that is so unlike Draco’s attitude towards the Muggle world, or Luna Lovegood’s ready replies, the silence might have been deafening. 

Weasley is brooding into his plate yet fortunately doesn’t bug Harry about the Elder Wand. Granger still looks pale but is clearly happy about the food and drinks, Narcissa is watching everyone like a hawk and Harry – well, Harry’s head is so full of thoughts Draco can almost hear them swirl inside his skull. 

And since Draco is a coward, he doesn’t reach out to take the other boy’s hand. Instead, he opts for a tactical retreat as soon as his plate is empty. 

“It doesn’t seem like our remaining guests are coming down. I’ll bring them each a plate.”

The smirk tugging at his mother’s lips tells him he is not fooling anyone. Thankfully, Ianto is too entranced by Lovegood’s accounts to pay him much attention. At least Harry mirrors the smile Draco sends his way. 

“Thank you, Mister Malfoy,” Ollivander says with some difficulty. “Though I’m afraid finishing this plate will prove a daunting task after weeks of near starvation.”

“That's perfectly all right,” is all Draco can think of to say. “One of the house-elves will preserve whatever leftovers there are.”

He is already at the door when the wandmaker speaks again. “Hawthorn, unicorn hair. Ten inches. Reasonably pliant.”

Draco’s mouth twists. “That’s me.”

“Is it still, though?” 

There is something ominous in the man’s silver eyes that sends a shiver down Draco’s spine. 

“Pardon?”

“It is not uncommon for wands to cease serving a wizard as well as they did upon choosing if the wizard has undergone a profound change in character.”

 _Oh._ Draco thinks back to the last time he used his wand – brewing potions last week. The tincture he made for Granger only needed a simple spell he felt more comfortable performing wandlessly. Besides, he was pressed for time. 

“I haven’t noticed anything.”

“You do not carry it on your person?”

Draco shakes his head. “Muggle town.”

“Have you always been this apt at performing advanced healing magic without a wand?”

“I wouldn’t call it advanced,” Draco huffs. “Just something to help the wounds close and reduce scaring.”

Ollivander says nothing in return yet his expression is haughty, as if he had proven his point. 

Draco swallows down any other protests and leaves him to his meal. The goblin – Griphook, as he has learned – resides right next door, across the hall from the third guest room that has become Ianto’s. Draco chuckles mentally when he remembers himself wondering why they would ever need four guest rooms. 

Griphook considers him for a moment after accepting his plate. 

“You appear weary of me.”

“Well, you’re being rather unhelpful to a wizard who saved your life.”

“Goblins do not reach decisions hurriedly.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “You’re just enjoying the sense of power. I know you’ll make a trade, your lot is too greedy not to.”

“My kind has been –”

“Oh, save me the lecture,” Draco snubs. “I was in the room. Yes, wizards have oppressed you, but if memory serves goblins haven’t quite clothed themselves in glory in their dealings with us. And you would have to be delusional to think the Dark Lord is going to change anything for the better. So, don’t you think helping the sodding Boy Who Lived might actually be in your best interest?”

“I am not some low elf, Mr Malfoy,” Griphook sneers, “nor a besotted wand-carrier. Altruism holds no appeal to me.”

“Then bloody tell us what you want in return already and stop this blasted charade,” Draco snaps before catching himself and taking a step back. Regardless of his anger at the creature, the last thing he wants is to ruin Harry’s chances of acquiring the goblin’s help. 

*

“I doubt you ruined anything,” Harry says later that night. 

They are in Draco’s room, which Harry has inspected with growing mirth (really, Draco will never hear the end of him having a poster of Nicolas Cage on his walls), while everyone else has been given a place to sleep elsewhere. Granger and Lovegood – “Their names are Hermione and Luna, Draco.” – are sharing the last guest room while Ron is bunking with a still curious Ianto. 

Serves the git right.

“Well, if you need another bargaining chip,” Draco offers, only half in jest, “I’m sure there’s some goblin goods in the Malfoy vaults somewhere. Think mother even rescued the good napkin rings from the Manor before she left.”

At Harry’s questioning expression, Draco explains, “Goblins don’t regard goblin-made items as ever belonging to anyone else. To them, the Malfoy family has, I don’t know… leased them, but possession resides with goblins. Really, weren’t you paying attention to anything in History of Magic?”

Harry laughs. The sound seems to surprise him more than it does Draco. 

Harry’s voice is soft as he steps further into the room, closer to Draco. “You always could make me laugh in the darkest moments.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “You’re alive, one Horcrux down and onto another, got the Weasel back and an actual bed for as long as you need it. I’m not quite sure we share the same definition of ‘darkest moments’.”

“Well, it’s…” Harry trails off, looking to the side. Draco can see the thoughts battling behind those green eyes until they close as Harry shakes his head with a sigh. “Not tonight.”

“Let’s go to bed, then,” Draco suggests, glad when his voice is steady. 

The weird atmosphere between them, like neither of them knows the protocol of this twisted situation they have found themselves in, follows them through their night time rituals until they are lying underneath the covers, facing each other but with ample space between them. 

The distance feels like a physical thorn in Draco’s side and he reaches out in a surge of courage – or stupidity – to snatch Harry’s hand. 

Rather than pulling away, Harry turns his palm upwards, tangling his fingers with Draco’s. 

“Part of me thought I’d never see you again,” he confesses. 

Harry only nods, his eyes weighed down with worry. It really has to suck being the Chosen One. 

“Go to sleep, Harry. You’re safe here.” 

Draco remains awake long after Harry has dozed off, watching over him and hoping to Merlin that this day won’t turn out to be a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter mentally written in my head for three years - it finally made the jump onto the page, yay!


	8. Protective urges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This comes to you a little later than intended, but I was on a shoot for the past few days with practically zero free time. But hey, chapter 9 is already complete, so you can expect that this weekend =) 
> 
> Again, some dialogue in this chapter is taken from Deathly Hallows and thus not mine.

Harry comes to on an unfamiliar bed. 

Flashes come to him – breaking twigs, mad eyes, silver hands and bloody knives – and he is sitting up, wand at the ready, before his mind has caught up with the situation. 

Draco has sat up next to him, his hands raised. “Good morning to you, too.”

Harry lowers his wand. “Uh, sorry.”

Draco snickers. “Frankly, I’d be worried about your chances of survival if this weren’t your reaction to waking up in unfamiliar surroundings.”

All Harry can think of in response is to shrug. His eyes have already catalogued the room and noted the two exists – door and window – as well as the little ensuite where he washed off the dirt of running and captivity. 

Draco has stretched out again so Harry mirrors him. It feels strange to be able to simply lie back down and not worry about snatchers or anything else. His chest warms as their eyes meet across the mattress, a smile playing about Draco’s lips. 

“Harry.”

“Draco.”

Harry sees the same memories reflected at him – saying goodbye before Dumbledore’s funeral, a simple exchange with so much more simmering beneath the surface. It’s all still there, Harry can practically taste it. 

They remain like this, basking in each other’s presence, until Harry’s stomach growls. 

Then they’re laughing, then kissing until Harry’s body interrupts them again and Draco pulls him from the bed, down the stair and into the kitchen. 

*

Ianto moves about the room easily, inspecting the shelves of books, vials and glasses holding a vast selection of ingredients. 

Draco is poised to hex him the second he damages anything. He’s allowed now, after all. 

“So,” Ianto hums, “this is where the magic happens?” He chuckles. “Literally, even?”

“Yes, and there’s no need for cheap puns.”

“Oy, that wasn’t cheap – rather brilliant, actually. Oh, and Ron’s been a real mate, told me all sorts of stories about you.”

Draco groans. He can’t decide if he’d rather drown himself in the cauldron in front of him or curse Weasley mute for the next few days. 

“Did some teacher really turn you into a ferret once?”

Draco stirs the yellow liquid counter-clockwise until it pales without looking up. 

“Did you really get mauled by some bird creature?”

He adds the powdered beetle eyes, stirs some more, mutters a spell or seven, successfully ignoring Ianto’s increasingly ridiculous questions until the one that tips the scale. 

“Did you really chicken out from facing a boagart? Those sound quite fun, act-”

“It’s boggart, you clot,” Draco snaps. “And the bird was a Hippogriff and a menace; I was thirteen, for Merlin’s sake! Being a ferret is not as fun as you’re imagining it in your tiny Muggle head, Ianto, and I told you I wasn’t nice in school, of-bloody-course I made magic buttons to demoralise my nemesis.”

He draws himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders. “And if you really want to know, yes, I ‘chickened out’ of facing the daft boggart because I didn’t want it to turn into my father in front of all my classmates, telling me what a failure I am for coming in second best every year to a Mud- to a Muggleborn and soiling the Malfoy name. And that was a time he hadn’t even known I was into blokes, or shacking up with the very boy the maniac he had sworn his allegiance to wanted dead more than he wanted a real nose. So, shut your mouth, Ianto, or I’ll shut it for you. I know more spells than you can imagine.” 

Draco whips around, unable to face his best friend, and attacks the Graphorn horn that needs to be ground as thoroughly as possible for maximum effect. 

He makes it through two entire horns before he sees Ianto stepping closer from the corner of his eyes. 

“Sorry… I shouldn’t have been such a tit. I mean, I just forget that, well. You’ve been fighting a war and I guess I haven’t really gotten that into my thick skull yet.”

Draco lifts his eyes slowly. “Well. You’re handling magic a lot better than I handled the Muggle world. Adjusting is hard,” he adds diplomatically. 

Ianto gives him a relieved smile. Several minutes pass until Ianto starts prodding things again, putting Draco’s teeth on edge. 

“Who’s that for?” he asks, pointing at the second crate Draco has been filling with potions for the past three hours. 

Draco swallows. “My satchel.”

“Your… Hang on!” Ianto is in his face immediately. “You’re going with them?”

“Well,” Draco says at length, wiping some of the fumes from his forehead. “I’m not staying behind. Sodding Potter needs all the assistance he can get.”

“But…” Ianto bites his lips. He looks incredibly young like this. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

Draco shrugs. 

“You’re braver than I thought.”

“I’m terrified,” he admits. “But don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

And because Ianto has become a true mate, all he does is punch Draco’s arm and accept his decision with a dejected grin. 

*

After sorting through their collective clothes with Ron a two of the house-elves that morning, Harry wanders about the house's ground level in search for Draco. Whom he finds, though, is Narcissa Malfoy in the sitting room, handling a necklace in her lap, wand withdrawing as Harry enters. 

“Oh, sorry…” 

“It’s quite all right, Mr Potter.” 

“Uh.” Harry coughs awkwardly. It’s the first time that he ever is alone with the matriarch. 

Her features remain blank, yet she decides to take pity on him. “If you are looking for my son, he is brewing potions in the cellar.” 

“Oh, uh, yes. Thank you. I was going to ask him about that. I mean – he sent me a supply for my birthday; it helped us a lot.”

Narcissa smiles at his stammering but not unkindly so. Harry never expected to be this tongue tied in the face of his boyfriend's only surviving relative, but he doesn’t know where he stands with the witch. It could be argued that it’s Harry’s fault Voldemort killed Lucius. 

The thought makes him blurt out: “I’m sorry. About your husband.” 

She nods gravely. “Thank you, Mr Potter.” 

Silence envelopes them again and Harry has just made up his mind to end this awkward encounter with a probability equally awkward retreat when Narcissa asks him to sit down and offers him tea. 

He declines the beverage – probably breaking five different pureblood customs he has never heard about – but takes a seat in the sleek armchair facing her. His eyes are immediately drawn to the necklace in her hands. Even from his position he can feel magic simmering around it. The silver pendant holds a small, black gem that gives the simple affair an elegant look.

“It’s a Black family heirloom,” Narcissa explains in reply to Harry’s unvoiced question. “A protective charm. It is customary to add to the spell work before passing it on.”

For a minute, Harry is confused. As he has found, Draco's mother is seldom direct - one needs to pay attention to catch what’s beneath the surface. 

Then it hits him. 

“Draco is joining us?” 

“He has yet to tell me so explicitly,” the woman admits. “But I know my only child better than he knows himself, I fathom. He won’t bid you farewell a second time, Mr Potter.” 

“I didn’t ask him to come,” Harry feels compelled to point out. 

“The thought never crossed my mind.”

Harry closes his mouth again. There are so many things he wants to say but the right words escape him. Suddenly, the table leg looks rather fascinating. 

“Mr Potter.” 

His head jerks up. Narcissa still has this blank expression he has no idea how to decipher, yet there is something almost forceful about her aura now. 

“I do not wish to offend you. However, while I’m grateful for what you have done for my son, and by extension myself, I also need you to understand that Draco is the sole heir to the House of Malfoy.”

Harry blanches. There is no doubt in his mind that this is the pureblood version of the “Hurt my son and I will do what Voldemort has always failed to do” talk. 

“Mrs Malfoy,” he stammers, a bit off balance. As nice as it is to see Draco’s mother caring so much about her son, Harry won’t deny he is a tad intimidated. “I love your son, and hurting him is the furthest thing from my mind.”

“I believe you. I also believe that those closest to you are exposed to dangers beyond your control.”

“It’s Draco’s decision,” Harry argues, somewhat petulantly. 

“And he’s blinded when it comes to you, Mr Potter.” Then, to Harry’s surprise, Narcissa’s expression mellows. “Be that as it may – should we survive this war, I doubt I could find a better match for my son.”

Harry blinks. “Uh. Thank you… I think?”

He has Narcissa Malfoy’s seal of approval. Harry never thought he’d get it, let alone that it manages to put him in a good mood for the rest of the day. Then again, after all he has seen these past months, stranger things have happened. 

*

As the days pass, Harry slowly starts to get his footing back while the others adapt and improve along with him. 

Hermione regains some colour in her cheeks; Luna’s face loses some of its gauntness; Ollivander masters first getting out of bed, then the stairs and Griphook morphs into a… well, an ungrateful nag. His special wishes obviously annoy Narcissa, and Harry doubts her upbringing taught her to be this polite to the creature. Maybe Draco spoke to her to keep her from upsetting the goblin… who still hasn’t made up his mind about helping them break into Gringotts. 

The forced downtime makes Harry’s skin itch. 

“You got to relax, mate,” Ron tells him on their third day at the safe house. He has taken to joining Hermione in the diminished but nonetheless impressive Malfoy library for research.

“And how do you suppose I do that?” 

Draco choses that moment to enter with one of the crates Harry has seen a lot of, given how he has taken to watching Draco brew. 

“Put on a glamour and accompany me into town to visit Ianto at work.” 

Ron lights up. “Blimey, never thought I’d say this, but Malfoy’s got a great idea there. Muggle town, no one to recognise us…”

“It’s dangerous,” Hermione objects. 

“Not more dangerous than watching Potter walk up the walls and falling on his arse,” Draco snarks, probably only half-joking. 

Harry scowls at his boyfriend. “I just hate not doing anything when I could be.”

Draco sets down the crate and steps into his personal space, familiar hands griping his shoulders. “That’s out of your control for the time being. You can’t bend the universe to your whims.”

“They aren’t whims,” Harry replies hotly. “We have a –”

“Job to do, yes,” Draco interrupts. “And even if Griphook gave his okay back on Saturday, he’d still only be walking about since yesterday afternoon. Besides, were you planning on just barging into Gringotts, wands raised, without a plan? Not that I’d be surprised,” he adds with a smile. “It’s your modus operandi, after all.”

Harry feels the corners of his mouth twitch and the anger abate, at least somewhat. 

He steals a kiss – to vocal protests from Ron that Hermione stifles with a slap on their friend’s hand – and takes a deep breath. 

“So where does Ianto work?”

*

The coffee shop, as it turns out, is a cosy affair, filled with plush sofas and armchairs to sink into. Harry is perched on the edge of a loveseat, unable to keep himself from checking their surroundings every few seconds. 

“Here you go, lads.” Ianto places their mugs on the rectangular table, then turns his head to Hermione. “And ladies.”

“So you really got to carry every order yourself?” Ron wonders aloud. “How do you clean them up?”

“By carrying them back, of course. Unless the customers are particularly nice and place their empty dishes in the designated basin on their way out.”

Ron glances to where Ianto’s nod indicated, then shakes his head. “Wicked.” 

“I always thought the Weasleys would be less ignorant than this,” Draco interrupts from Harry’s right. They are sitting close, though nothing that would draw stares from anyone in the café. “By now, I could teach all seven years of Muggle Studies, I believe.”

“If all your lot are as clueless as you, mate, I don’t doubt it. Should’ve seen this bloke the first time I dragged him to the pictures.”

Across from Harry, Hermione perks up at that. “You took Draco to the cinema?” 

“Quite regularly, in fact.” Ianto grins. 

Harry casts Draco a sly look. “So, that’s where the film poster comes from.” It’s great to see a smile ghosting about Hermione’s lips again, so Harry explains, in excruciating detail, the assortment of Muggle items Draco has in his room.

By the time Harry is halfway through his hot chocolate, he dares to relax a fraction. They truly are the only magical folk in the coffee shop and everyone else is busy selecting their daily fix of caffeine. Still, Harry breathes a sigh of relief when they leave and make their way back to Draco’s house. 

“You didn’t curse anyone in your paranoia – I’m proud of you, darling,” Draco whispers, his tone dripping with fond sarcasm. 

Harry shrugs, slinging an arm around Draco’s waist and raising an eyebrow. “Darling?” 

“Well, I could always call you pigmy puff. It’s a common term of endearment in Wizarding circles.”

“Uh…”

But then, Draco chuckles. “Gosh, your face, Potter. I’m a Malfoy – we don’t do silly nicknames.”

“You just use last names as insults and a code for the l-word, right?” Ianto butts in. 

Draco tells him to shove off, but he’s laughing. His entire face lights up when he does and Harry is caught staring. Ianto “aw”s, and Draco leans in for a kiss. 

Emboldened by the joyous mood, Harry makes a detour through the yard upon their return to check up on Dobby’s grave. Spring is a long way off, but there is already grass covering the small hill and the first stems of flowers peeking from the ground. 

“Liope and the others will tend to it every day, Harry Potter!” the elf promised when Harry tentatively asked about it. It seems they have taken the task to heart. 

Dobby would have loved the grave. The thought makes Harry smile as he reaches the back porch of the safe house where he promptly runs into Draco. 

“Wha-”

“Griphook wants to see you.”

*

“Your plan better work, mate. We need the sword,” Ron continues with a frustrated gesture, “it’s the only Horcrux slayer we have!”

Before Harry can assure his friend, Draco speaks up. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” 

As one, Harry, Hermione and Ron turn towards the former Slytherin, whose expression turns sheepish.

“I might have managed to develop a tincture with powers equal to that of Basilisk venom.”

Harry gapes. “What? How?”

Draco arches an eyebrow. “Don’t act so surprised – what do you think I’ve been doing here for the past eight and a half months?”

“But who’s counting,” Ron mutters under his breath. 

“Goblins are a sneaky lot,” Draco continues, unperturbed. “I very much doubt your oh-so-subtle double cross will work, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Griphook ended up with the sword before you’re able to use it to destroy whatever Horcrux we find. It’s prudent to have a plan B.”

“For that we’d need to have a solid plan A in the first place,” Harry says with a humourless chuckle. 

“Hang on, mate – we?” Ron gapes. “Malfoy’s coming with us?”

Hermione does not roll her eyes, but it looks like a rather close call. “Do you really expect him to stay here? Really, Ronald – you broke out of Hogwarts to join us and you’re not even romantically involved with either of us.”

Draco laughs at the look Ron’s face, which is pretty funny, Harry has to admit. 

“I assure you I shall pull my own weight. I have almost finished refilling the first aid supplies and am brewing additional potions that might prove useful. What do you bring to this quest again, Weasley?”

“Bloody good timing and comic relief,” Ron snaps. “Without me, Harry would’ve drowned in a lake, if that daft locket hadn’t strangled him first.”

Draco whirls around, fixing him with a glare. “What?”

Oh, right. Harry really only glossed over that part when he caught Draco up on what’s been going on. He raises his hands, hoping it will soothe any additional worrying on Draco’s part. 

“Not going to happen again, I swear. And it all worked out in the end.”

“That’s all golly good, then,” Draco sneers. “What’s next, Potter? Snuggling up to a Lethifold?”

“I was rather thinking you might be up to that,” is what Harry’s brain comes up with in response. 

As far as distractions go, it works. It stops any further indignation on Draco’s part in its tracks; Ron grimaces and makes a strangled sound while Hermione laughs at the lot of them. 

“Oy, toss off.” Ron shoves Hermione’s hand off his arm, but his tone is teasing. “Do your poofter thing. I’ll check if Ianto saved me one of those magical puddings.”

“Give him my love, Weasley!” Draco calls after him, dissolving into laughter when all Ron does is flip him the bird. 

Harry might have been jealous of Ron and Ianto’s budding friendship, yet as it stands, things are still slightly awkward between himself and Ron. Better, definitely, but still awkward. At least Ron is slowly but surely getting used to seeing him and Draco snog. 

Which they currently aren’t doing, considering the figurative bomb Draco just dropped. 

“Were you serious?” Hermione asks. “You think you developed something that can destroy Horcruxes?”

Draco nods. “I can’t be certain it will work, but at least in theory, it should.” 

“You’re brilliant,” Harry blurts, then immediately blushes. 

Thankfully, Draco seems to find his blundering compliments flattering. 

*

The next three weeks leave little time for anything but preparations and planning. With enough toadying up to Griphook, the goblin is forthcoming enough that they have as much information as they need to figure out how to do the impossible. 

Having Draco and his mother on their side definitely helps. 

“We should test the hair to be absolutely certain.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at the blond. “Test? Like a DNA test?”

“The magical equivalent, rather. You do realise that Bellatrix’s sister is sleeping under the same roof as you, Hermione?”

To be honest, that has not occurred to Harry. But then again, he tends to spend as little time alone with the woman as possible. It doesn’t stop him from approaching her later that day, Draco next to him. 

“Polyjuice potion might get you through the door.” Narcissa purses her lips. “Yet I highly doubt your friend will manage to pass as my sister beyond something as superficial as appearance.”

Harry shares some of her concerns, in fact, but so far, he was at a loss at how to counter them. It’s Draco’s idea that Narcissa teach Hermione how to behave, and Harry holds his breath while the woman weighs her answer. Of course she agrees, though – teaching Hermione how to be convincing as Bellatrix is as much to Draco’s benefit as it is to Harry’s. As much as Narcissa might insist on being neutral in this war, at least according to Draco, she will stop at nothing to protect her family. Harry can’t help but respect the woman for it. 

When their last day at the safe house finally arrives, Harry finds himself making tea in the kitchen while Draco and Ron finalise their alternate identities and Hermione has one last session with Narcissa. 

Harry doesn’t notice Ianto joined him until the boy clears his throat. 

“You’re a great bloke, Harry.”

“Uh. Thank you?”

“Don’t mean I won’t end you if you get Draco killed.”

Now, Harry knows that as a Muggle, there is little Ianto could do to really harm him, but the fierceness in Ianto’s gaze makes him reconsider. The boy has a strength about him Harry has rarely seen and he hopes he will get to see the kind of man Ianto becomes once he grows more into it. 

“I’ll protect Draco with my life,” Harry says after a beat. “You have my word.” 

“Good. Cause that wanker’s got to see me graduate, you hear me? So you bloody well better win this war.”

“We’re doing everything in our power.”

“Guess that’s all any of us can do, really.” 

Harry nods, watching as Ianto mirrors his action and leaves the kitchen. 

*

Hours later, after Narcissa deemed Hermione’s acting convincing enough to not get them killed on the spot, after Ianto poured them some shots which for some reason made Draco blink an unnatural lot, after they all drank to their last night at the safe house, only Luna remains behind when everyone heads to bed. 

Everyone except Harry and Draco, that is. Harry wracks his brain to find something he can say that will make her go to bed as well, but as so often, Luna proves astonishingly in tune with the current mood. 

“I will leave you two alone now,” she announces dreamily. 

Draco watches her exit with a furrowed brow. “Not a great believer in subtlety, is she?”

With a laugh, Harry shakes his head, but the atmosphere sobers as soon as their eyes meet. 

“Are you sure you want to come with us?” Harry asks for what must be the seventh time, turning his body more towards his boyfriend next to him on the sofa. 

All Draco does is give him another flat look. 

“It’s dangerous, Draco! You’d be much safer –”

“I’m perfectly aware of that,” he snubs. “Do you have any idea what it was like for me these past months? Knowing you were out there, possibly hurt or worse?” 

Harry doesn’t, but the pain in Draco’s voice still conveys some of it. 

“You’re not leaving this house without me, Potter.”

Harry exhales with more force than necessary and rubs a hand across his face. Problem is, Harry wants Draco by his side. It’s selfish, yet Harry can’t ignore the swell of anticipation in his chest at the thought of fighting side by side with his partner. And while the thought of Draco getting hurt in Gringotts, or Harry failing to protect him during whatever lies ahead of them after that, hurts as much as any Crucio… the thought of having to say goodbye to Draco for a second time is infinitely worse. 

Something about the shift in attitude must have shown on his face, for Draco’s splits into a smile. 

“I knew you’d see reason.”

“Well,” Harry huffs, “if you die, at least I won’t have to worry about living without you for long.”

The alarm in Draco’s expression is almost comical. “Why on Salazar’s earth would that be?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to smirk. “Both your mother and Ianto told me in no uncertain terms that they’d finish what Voldemort’s been failing to do if any harm came to you.”

Draco’s mouth falls open for a moment before he seems to realise what he is doing and his jaw snaps shut again. “Utterly mad, the both of them.”

“They care about you,” Harry says, shifting closer on the sofa. “I’m glad you have people like them in your life.”

“I’d say ‘likewise’, but after Hermione threatened me with castration and revealed she knows where my wardrobe is located, I’d prefer you look for different friends.”

“Castra – what, really?”

“Your honorary sister described the procedure in vivid detail. She’d do it the Muggle way, because it’s not barbaric enough… I don’t remember much of what Weasley said – I’m repressing these traumatic memories until the day I die.”

Draco gives an exaggerated shudder before shaking his head. Then, moving with his usual grace, climbs into Harry’s lap, legs splayed on the side and hands resting on his chest, right above Harry’s heart. Harry’s hands have come up to rest on Draco’s hips without conscious effort on his part.

“Now, you’re going to stop worrying about tomorrow for two bloody seconds and try to relax, all right?”

“Easier said than done,” Harry argues. He opens his mouth to continue but Draco’s kiss silences any additional protests. 

“We’ve got a plan, Potter – we even have several contingency plans, and besides, you’ve always done your best work under pressure. We can do this.”

The profound conviction in Draco’s voice is almost dizzying and finally the nagging voices in Harry’s head fade into the background.

Draco’s hand moves across his chest, coming to a rest above the scar left by the locket. Harry tenses a little, but the other boy’s eyes are too soft to be chiding. 

“Just no swimming this time, understood?” 

Harry laughs. “Fine. You’ll look better in wet robes anyway.”

“That you think I wouldn’t remember to cast an Impervious charm saddens me, Potter.”

“Oh, did I insult your wizard pride, Malfoy?”

“I’m afraid so. How are you going to make it up to me?”

Draco’s grey eyes are sparkling with mirth and Harry feels something like giddiness that is only strange because he isn’t used to it anymore. Draco is still fake-pouting, so Harry decides to snog it better and pulls Draco in by the nape of his neck for soft, caressing kisses that fill Harry’s chest with warmth. 

It’s unlike anything they have ever done before – there is no rush, no overeager hormones speeding up their pace, no hesitance when skirting over scars and Marks, only skin touching skin and the sound of their breathing. The war has changed them both, but they still fit. 

_Better than ever_ , Harry thinks, placing a kiss on Draco’s jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I wasn’t going to fade out this early, but my characters made me after a few failed attempts at writing it out. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did! Thanks to everyone who has commented and left kudos, you all always make my day <3 Keep it up, pretty please :)


	9. Into Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is also on the shorter side, I'm afraid, but chapter 10 is already with my beta :) Also, I'm having SO MUCH FUN with this story, and I hope you'll enjoy my rendering of the finale equally so. 
> 
> Even if there are some verbatim quotes from Deathly Hallows, again. 
> 
> Also, I'd like to thank everyone who's still with me in this - words can't express how much it means to me!

Draco knows fear. He knows it in all shades and permutations, from the trembling that comes with breaking Father’s favourite decanter during playtime to the stomach-churning anxiety about final marks in school, to the unspeakable horror of the Dark Lord’s demands and threats. 

But fear is useful as a motivator – it quickens his thoughts and hones his reflexes after a lifetime of conditioning. Draco doubts he would have managed to maintain several Impervious Curses and facing a dragon simultaneously, then diving into a room filled with Gemino and Flagrante Curses to retrieve one small cup without fear to spur him on. 

_Of-bloody-course_ Griphook abandons them, sword in hand, as soon as Harry shoves the item into his pockets. 

“I think this is the moment I get to say I told you so!” Draco shouts over the noise of the approaching goblins. 

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Ron grunts, firing a hex around the pillar. 

The dragon roars, the sound smothering whatever Harry wanted to say. Draco’s eyes snap towards the chains tethering the creature to the ground. There is no chance of leaving the way they came…

His eyes meet Harry’s– apparently, he isn’t the only one whose reasoning is a tad skewed. 

“This is madness!” Draco tells the Boy Who Lived To Give Draco A Heart Attack, but he does follow his boyfriend onto the back of a sodding dragon.

“You’re both mental!” Ron shouts. 

And yet he helps Hermione onto the scaled back and they both join into casting _Defindo_ at the ceiling to allow them to squeeze through along with the beast. 

Draco’s heart is beating a staccato against his ribs as they launch into the sky above Diagon Alley. On the other side of the dragon’s back, Harry’s eyes are wide with adrenaline and alight with life. 

Right, the git also loved riding that Hippogriff. Mad bastard. 

At least the mad bastard still has enough wits about him to order them to jump over a body of water, if not to cast Impervious charms on any of them. That task falls to Draco. 

It’s worth to see how utterly befuddled Weasley is. “What – why aren’t I wet?”

“Someone wasn’t paying attention in third year charms,” Draco chides. “It’s called Impervious.”

“But – you didn’t say anything! And where’s your wand?”

“Wandless magic is a thing, Weasley. Do you want me to douse you in an Aguamenti, or are you fine with my involvement?”

Ron mumbles something that has Harry roll his eyes and lean in for a kiss. 

“Thank you, Draco.”

“See,” he sneers, “that’s how you respond to someone saving you from disgusting water all over your robes.”

Ron tilts his head. “Kiss you?” 

Harry and Ron laugh at Draco’s expense while he feels a blush colour his cheeks. He is almost grateful for Hermione’s nagging about the poor fire-spewing pet they lost. 

“You sound like Hagrid,” Ron chuckles. “It’s a dragon, Hermione, it can look after itself. It’s us we need to worry about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well I don’t know how to break this to you,” Ron continues, “but I think they _might_ have noticed we broke into Gringotts.”

For a moment, Draco can only look at Ron. Then he is nothing but a bubble of laughter, chest heaving it with despite his best attempts to keep his demeanour as the others clutch their stomachs.

The atmosphere changes with a snap as Harry’s gasps turn pained. Draco is at his side immediately, Hermione and Ron following in his wake. For long minutes, all they can do is watch Harry’s face contort and his body twitch, lips moving without making a sound until finally, his eyes fly open. 

“He knows. He knows and he’s going to check where the others are, and the last one,” Harry gasps, climbing onto his feet, “is at Hogwarts.”

*

Draco barely manages to stifle a snort when Aberforth calls Grindelwald Dumbledore’s “best friend”. Although, on second thought it might be the old nag’s honest impression of the dark wizard – it’s not as if Dumbledore and Grindelwald could advertise their relationship in the face of centuries of pureblood decorum back in the early twentieth century.

Shaking his head, Draco shifts his weight from one foot onto the other. Is it just him, or is this the worst time for listening to some disgruntled brother’s anecdotes? Aren’t they trying to storm a castle? 

And damn it, now Draco is thinking of movie nights with Ianto. This is not the mood he needs prior to what might be the final battle of this war. 

Longbottom’s arrival, however, eclipses any melancholy Draco might have been experiencing. The state the Gryffindor is in reminds Draco a lot of Ianto, right after his mother died. 

“What? This?” Longbottom just dismisses his injuries with a shrug. “This is nothing, Seamus is worse. You’ll see. Shall we get going then? Oh,” he turns to Aberforth, “Ab, there might be a couple more people on the way.”

“Couple more?” Aberforth does not look amused, but Draco then again, doubts the old tit is capable of smiling. “What d’you mean, a couple more, Longbottom? There’s a curfew and a Camwaulding Charm on the whole village!”

Longbottom grins. “I know, that’s why they’ll be apparating directly into the bar! Just send them down the passage when they get here, will you? Thanks a lot.”

Harry, of course, wastes another minute thanking Aberforth profusely. Draco watches with a fond feeling settling in his chest that even drowns out the dread gripping his heart. It returns full-force when Neville and Ron start reminiscing about injuries they received from the Carrows after sharing a manly half-hug. 

“Never mind that stuff… Is it true? Did you break into Gringotts? Did you escape on a dragon? It’s everywhere, everyone’s talking about it, Terry Boot got beaten up by Carrow for yelling about it in the Great Hall at dinner!”

“Yeah, it’s true,” Harry admits, and has the decency to look a little sheepish.

Neville’s laugh echoes in the passage. “What did you do with the dragon?”

“We released it into the wild,” Draco explains. The other boy’s glee is infectious. “Hermione was all for keeping it as a pet –”

“Don’t exaggerate, Draco –”

“Blimey, never thought I’d see the day. Malfoy and Hermione – friends!”

“Draco here even got chummy with a Muggle,” Ron butts in, smirking. 

Neville grins at Draco, then looks back at Ron. “And you’re on first name basis with him, mate! That’s brilliant! So, you finally got your head out of your arse about Harry and him?”

Draco and Ron both fix the wizard with a glare. 

“They’re doing this ridiculous thing of not mentioning it,” Hermione supplies. 

“We’re pretending to go along,” Harry adds. 

“Right…” Neville throws Harry a thoughtful look. “While doing what, exactly? People have been saying you’ve just been on the run, Harry, but I don’t think so. I think you’ve been up to something.”

“You’re right,” Harry says before changing the topic with the subtlety of a Hippogriff. “But tell us about Hogwarts. We heard horrible stories from Ron.”

“Oh, it’s only got worse.”

Neville’s accounts of Death Eaters targeting people’s families come as no surprise to Draco considering it has been a tried technique long before one desperate father placed Harry into the hands of Draco’s aunt. 

“Neville, Luna’s all right, we’ve seen her,” Hermione begins, but Neville interrupts her with another smirk. 

“Yeah, I know, she managed to get a message to me.” He retrieves what looks like a Galleon from his pockets that looks quite similar to how Harry has been communicating with his godfather. “These have been great!” Neville beams at Hermione. “The Carrows never rumbled how we were communicating, it drove them mad. We used to sneak out at night and put graffiti on the walls; Ron and his sister had some brilliant ideas. Snape really hated it.”

“You used to?” Harry echoes. Draco also noticed the past tense and how Ron’s expression crumbles. 

“Well, it got more difficult as time went one.” A shadow has fallen over Neville’s face. “Ron snuck out before Christmas, then we lost Luna during the holidays, and Ginny never came back after Easter. The four of us were sort of the leaders. The Carrows seemed to know I was behind a lot of it, so they started coming down on me hard, and then Michael Corner went and got caught releasing a first-year they’d chained up, and they tortured him pretty badly. That scared people off.”

“No kidding,” Ron mutters, looking torn. 

Draco watches the ginger closely as the passage begins to slope upward. He wouldn’t admit to it even on his death bed, but Draco is reasonably glad Ron chose to leave Hogwarts. Without him, Harry might have drowned and he and Draco might never have been reunited, but what’s more, Draco knows how much Harry missed his best friend. 

Draco didn’t bite his tongue back in sixth year when Harry told him about how Ron got in a snit over the Triwizard Tournament and learned his lesson. No matter how much Weasley behaves like an utter prick, Harry will always forgive him eventually. He’s a better friend than Ron deserves, yet after experiencing the wonders of friendship for himself with Ianto, Draco has realised that being best friends is not about what a person deserves. 

_It’s a lot like love, that way,_ Draco muses, glancing at Harry who is deeply impressed with Neville’s grandmother. 

To Draco, who has heard his mother talk about the witch in the past, this is hardly news but still an intimidating reminder to run should he ever meet her. Longbottom might have forgiven Draco’s bullying, but he doubts the boy’s grandmother will be equally generous and noble. 

When they eventually reach the end of the passage, it is nothing like Draco imagined. He recognises the Room of Requirement intuitively, but it has really outdone itself now. It is a far cry from the luxury Draco is accustomed to, yet as comfortable as a refuge for wayward student could ever get. 

They all welcome Harry with joyous cheers and eager devotion. Watching Harry’s baffled expression at the reception makes Draco smile despite the anxiety underneath his skin. There has always been an aura to Harry, an appeal, something that inspires and makes one believe in the advent of dawn in the depth of night. 

“Someone’s even more besotted than before.”

Draco is startled out of his blatant admiration (he refuses to call it swooning) by none other than Pansy Parkinson, who has turned up to his right with Blaise. Her fair skin and his dark are both unmarred, though they both look harried. 

“Didn’t expect to see you for the final battle, Draco,” Blaise says while Pansy pulls him into a hug. 

“Especially considering what happened to your father – I’m really sorry.”

The sincerity in Pansy’s voice blindsides Draco for a moment and he has some difficulty hiding his reaction. If Blaise or Pansy notice his irregular demeanour, they are kind enough not to say anything. 

There’s a commotion near the portrait that draws their attention and Draco watches as the Weasley twins and others enter the Room, clearly geared for battle. By the looks of it, Harry is attempting to turn them away. 

“Excuse me,” Draco murmurs. “I have to stop Potter from pretending he’s alone on this earth.”

Pansy and Blaise’s laughter follows him back to the trio and their flock of fans. He just about catches Ron actually talking sense. 

“We don’t know where it is. We’ve got to find it fast. We don’t have to tell them it’s a Horcrux.”

Hermione is already nodding. “I think Ron’s right. We don’t even know what we’re looking for, we need them.” 

Harry’s brow is still creased in indecision, which Draco takes as his cue to drawl, “You aren’t the only one involved in this, Potter.”

Several drawn-out seconds go by, flickers of pain passing Harry’s features as he reaches a decision. Draco’s eyes swivel to the scar on his boyfriend’s forehead, wondering how long it will be before the Mark burns with the Dark Lord’s summoning. Ignoring it will be painful, but Draco has survived it in the past.

“Okay,” Harry calls to the room at large. He doesn’t even need to raise his voice to render the crowd silent. Draco preens in the privacy of his mind, just a little bit. 

Then he darts after Harry and Luna, catching up with them at the door Neville is about to open for them. 

“Draco, you need to stay here –”

“Forget it, Potter. I’m not going to sit idly by while you’re combing through the castle after curfew with the bloody Carrows on the loose. Not to mention Snape! You’re walking into Slytherin territory and you will need an adequate escort.” 

Harry opens his mouth to protest, yet Luna is quicker. “That will be very helpful, Draco. You’re very brave.”

Draco snorts. “I wouldn’t call it bravery.”

“Bravery isn’t about the absence of fear. It’s about acting in the presence of fear.”

Draco blinks at the girl. 

“Fine,” Harry concedes with a heavy sigh, “we need to hurry. He’s on the move.”

Draco follows the pair, who hide beneath the Invisibility Cloak and use the Marauder’s Map to navigate the corridors. Draco has perfected his concealment charm long before tonight, though his invisibility does nothing to assuage his nerves. 

Of course it all escalates. 

The searing pain in Draco’s left arm renders him temporarily useless, but Luna’s well-aimed _Stupefy_ saves them from even more trouble… that is, until Amycus strong-arms his way into Ravenclaw Tower and then has the gall to spit at Professor McGonagall. 

Harry’s reaction is immediate. 

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

Amycus spins around but Harry is already raising his wand, something eerily cold in his eyes. 

“Crucio!”

Draco watches the Death Eater writhe and thrash, lifted off his feet, and collide with the front of a bookcase, shattering the glass. 

“I see what Bellatrix meant,” he hears Harry say in a tone that is colder than anything Draco has ever witnessed, “you need to really mean it.”

“Potter! Potter – you’re here! What –? How –? Potter, that was foolish!” Professor McGonagall clutches her heart, struggling to regain her bearings. 

“He spat at you.”

“Potter, I – that was very – very gallant of you ¬– but don’t you realize –?”

“Yes, I do,” Harry assures her and by extension Draco, who has been genuinely worried about the other boy’s sanity. “Professor McGonagall, Voldemort’s on the way.”

“Oh, are we allowed to say the name now?” 

Luna’s sudden appearance has Professor McGonagall stumbling back with a hand on the neck of her tartan dressing gown. Draco waits until she has flopped into the closest chair before lifting his spells, eliciting another shocked gasp. 

“I doubt it makes a difference, Luna. The Dark Lord already knows Harry is here.”

In the chaos that follows, Draco’s respect for the deputy headmistress only increases. He was poised to cast an Imperious on Amycus when she beat him to it and made him restrain both his sister and himself. He also decides that, should he and Harry both survive this madness, he will give Harry some aspirin for his next birthday. His head his bound to hurt for the upcoming decade, as much as he uses is to switch between his and the Dark Lord’s mind. 

One mention of operating on Dumbledore’s orders tips the scale. Draco conceals himself again as Harry spreads the cloak over both him and Luna before the three of them follow McGonagall through the dark corridors of Hogwarts. 

Until Snape steps out from behind a statue. 

Draco’s heart stops for a second. He has never seen his godfather look this tired. There are dark shadows under his eyes even spells won’t hide and his skin has a greyish tinge that speaks of ill health. 

Draco expected the man to be content, satisfied with the turn of events and enjoying his position as his master’s right hand man. 

Something isn’t right. 

Which is the only reason Draco does not aim an Avada Kedavra at Snape when he ducks the giant serpent the man conjures that McGonagall counters with a cloud of daggers. 

Instead, he bellows, “Expelliarmus!” as the Concealment charm falls ways. 

Snape has no chance to pull up a shield, not with the arrival of Flitwick and Sprout claiming all of his attention, and his wand escapes his hold. He summons it back immediately, eyes finding Draco crouched on the floor, and that’s it, he thinks. He’s done for. 

However, Snape does not kill him. In fact, he stops fighting altogether, barging into the closest classroom and crashing through the window. 

Apparently, Snape finally convinced the Dark Lord to teach him how to fly. The incongruity of the man’s actions unsettle Draco more than watching Harry cast an Unforgivable. 

“COWARD!” McGonagall calls after Snape, but Draco can but stare as it dawns on him with chilling clarity. 

The final battle is upon them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've spent the past 48 hours battling fever and other cold-related symptoms, so there might be some layout errors. Apologies, in that case!


	10. Full Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the first part of the culmination point of this story! Hold on tight, and if you recognise bits from the books, these don’t belong to me. Fair warning, you might need tissues for this. I certainly did.
> 
> (Also, at some point I'm going to make up my mind regarding the chapter count. I solemnly swear.)

_The time has come for Slytherin House to decide upon its loyalties_ , McGonagall had said. 

The words were directed at Slughorn at the time who acknowledged them with barely a nod. Draco remembers how the old man blanched, probably already planning his escape. 

He gets his wish: someone has to supervise the evacuation, after all. Draco scowls at the coward’s retreating back when some Auror – tall, bald, black – suggests teams and strategies. Draco is only half-listening; most of his attention on Hermione and Weas– _Ron_. The bloke used his first name earlier, Draco reckons he should mirror him. He can always blame it on the war later, if the need arises. 

Now all they have left is the diadem, that ghastly snake, and the Dark Lord himself – 

\- whose voice cuts through the Great Hall like a blizzard, chilling Draco to the bone. 

“Give me Harry Potter,” Voldemort implores, “and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter and you will be rewarded. You have until midnight.”

Almost unwittingly, Draco steps closer to his partner, past Hermione and the Weasley twins, a protective urge straightening his spine. However, the Slytherin side of Draco's mind points out that it would be a solid deal: one person against a peaceful resolution and a swift transition into a new system. 

Apparently, Millicent Bullstrode shares the sentiment. 

“But he’s there! Potter’s there! Someone grab him!”

Draco is not the only one drawing his wand. McGonagall diffuses the situation a moment later but apparently doesn’t expect the wave of protests from several Slytherins at being banished from the battle. 

“I’m of age, Professor,” Pansy Parkinson cries, “and there’s nothing you can do to stop me!” 

Draco can tell how that conversation plays out, so he turns away from the row and towards his boyfriend. 

“Aren’t we supposed to be looking for something?” 

“What - oh, right!” 

“Then let’s go, Potter.” 

“Where, though?” Harry asks as they slip out of the Great Hall. “You heard it, too. No one in living memory knows where it is.” 

Draco skids to a stop at the foot of the Marble staircase. Harry has a point. 

“Well,” he says at length, “someone clearly does, or He wouldn’t have been able to get it. It can’t be that hard to find something a former student has hidden. The castle doesn't have that many –”

The idea makes him stop mid-sentence. _It can’t be._ All this time, he was so close to it and he never...

Harry grabs his shoulder, alarmed. “Draco? Is it the Mark?!” 

“Harry... where did I spend the majority of sixth year?” 

He watches as green eyes narrow in confusion, then grow distant as Harry connects the dots. 

“The Room of Hidden Things,” Harry says on an exhale. “Tom Riddle would have been arrogant enough to think he’s the only one to find the room. I mean, the teachers don’t, but –” 

“We do,” Draco finishes the sentence, somewhat dazed by the epiphany. “No one would suspect anything of value amongst that rubbish. I sure as hell didn’t.” 

His tone might be disgruntled but his mouth curls into a smile that Harry echoes before stealing a kiss and dashing up the stairs. 

They only have less than an hour before the Dark Lord’s deadline as it is, yet every corner they turn seems to bring yet another person whom Harry has to speak with, Aurors and Order members and half-giants and Aberforth, all chipping away at their limited temporal resources. By the time they run into the other two thirds of the golden trio, Draco’s tempus charm is worryingly close to midnight. 

“Glad to see you do possess some brain cells after all, Ronald,” Draco drawls once Harry and Hermione have fawned over the bloke’s - admittedly clever - idea of retrieving a Basilisk fang long enough. Draco is still at a loss as to why his own concoction did not work on Hufflepuff’s cup. “But we do still have another Horcrux to find.” 

Harry takes point after that. He leads them to the corridor, calls up the room and splits them up into pairs to cover more ground. 

He would make a great Auror, Draco realises with a drooping stomach. If there weren’t this gnawing sensation at the back of his skull. If only he could be certain his boyfriend lived that long. 

*

It’s almost too easy.

The basilisk fang claims it’s third Horcrux, Harry slips into the Dark Lord’s mind to find the snake, and they are off again, running through corridors to get to the Shrieking Shack. Adrenaline is flooding Draco’s senses and sharpening his reflexes, leaving barely any room for fear. 

The high from destroying the diadem doesn’t last long. 

Draco stumbles over the unmoving body of a Death Eater he vaguely recognises as he runs after the others, practically flying down the stairs and past four Weasley brothers duelling Thicknesse and two more enemies. He hears one of the gingers bellow he’s resigning, then another shouting a warning. 

“Get away from the wall!” 

Draco feels Harry’s entire body connect with his side, forcing him onto the floor. He has half a second to grouse about chivalrous Gryffindors before the air explodes. Draco’s ears are ringing but a quick spell clears his head. 

“In Salazar’s name, Harry!” 

But Harry doesn’t shrug, doesn’t acknowledge Draco’s frustration at his daft impulsive decisions at all. His eyes are fixed on the redhead on the floor, whose own are open but unseeing, 

“BILL!” Ron cries out. 

He is next to his brother in an instant, joined immediately by the twins and the one who talked about resignation, grief emanating from them in waves. 

Draco has to turn away, intent on giving them some privacy, but then, there are Acromantulas pouring into the castle, an entire herd of them, and Ron is trying to rip Death Eaters limb for limb while the twins get the corpse away from the battlefield... for that’s what it is, the castle and its grounds: a battlefield, littered with injured fighters, spiders and giants causing havoc, McGonagall commandeering an army of desks, and Fenrir Greyback in wolf form growling at another wolf and a big black dog that’s bleeding from its flank. 

Draco fights, too. Flings curses and hexes at any Death Eater he sees, ducks when Harry tells him to and calls out warnings in return until a dreadful cold threatens to choke him. 

“Patronuses!” Hermione shouts just as Draco discovers the hundreds of Dementors approaching. 

Draco has never truly mastered that particular spell, even after he escaped the task the Dark Lord gave him. Dread threatens to consume him, swallow him whole, but then a hand is clasping his. Harry’s grip is too tight, almost painful, but it yields the reassurance Draco needs to at least try. 

He thinks of that breathtaking moment of euphoria, of their first kiss on Welsh soil, of knowing Harry safe and of being reunited, then copies the movements of Harry’s wand hand that sent the stag to join the otter and the dog. 

A silver creature erupts from the tip of his hawthorn wand, large and above all _corporeal_. If that weren’t baffling enough, the shape is not that of a ferret or any other rodent as he expected - Draco might have wasted quite some time at the safe house mulling over this issue and figured there must have been a reason Moody chose to transfigure him into that particular species - but that of a bird. 

Not just any bird. 

“Merlin’s pants, what the hell?” Ron curses, obviously disgruntled, “Malfoy’s Patronus is a sodding Phoenix?! How is that fair!” 

“Well, he does have quite the talent for healing magic and phoenixes –”

“Rhetorical, Hermione,” Ron grumbles. His dog japs at the hem of one particularly resistant Dementor’s robes. 

Harry, meanwhile, is blatantly staring, 

“Jealous, Potter?” Draco can’t resist teasing, though Harry’s expression morphs into a smile. 

“Just proud, Draco.” 

For a moment, the world narrows down to just the two of them, everything else falling away. Draco's Patronus spreads its wings and charges, chasing off every last one of the buggers while Draco pulls Harry into a kiss. 

“I love you,” he whispers when he draws back. 

Harry’s responding, “I love you too,” makes his heart sing. 

“Mates! Now is not the time!” 

Ron’s voice cuts through the solitude and their bubble shatters almost palpably. The four conjectures vanish into the air, Draco’s a lot less smoothly as the others’. 

Right. They have a snake to kill.

*

Only it is not the snake that sinks onto the wooden floor.

The Dark Lord leaves without glancing back. A whooshing sound signals he has taken off in flight and breaks Draco out of his paralysis. 

He surges forward, one hand already rummaging through his satchel. Time is of essence and the adrenaline eclipses everything but his mental analysis of the wounds on Snape’s body. Draco ignores the fear of the Dark Lord returning, ignores the shuffling footsteps of Harry and the others, of the questions probably already on the tip of their tongues. 

Snape may have been a self-important git, but he is still Draco’s godfather; the man who read him Potions Quarterly while babysitting him and taught him to brew a hangover potion the first time he and his friends raided Father’s liquor cabinet. 

His first priority is to staunch the bleeding – the wounds are deep yet not severe enough for Draco’s healing charms to fail. Nagini was not as thorough as she could have been; after all she did not expect anyone to offer first aid, Draco presumes. He moves to retrieve antivenin and blood replenishing potions next but Snape makes a piteous noise at the back of his throat. 

Draco follows the man’s black eyes to where Harry has knelt down, just next to the puddle of blood. 

“Take them…” Severus croaks. Two blinks dislodge the tears that have gathered in his eyes and they flow down his cheeks, silver in the low light. “Take them.”

Draco conjures a flask and hands it to Harry, who gathers the slivers of memories with a startled expression. 

By the time he is done, Draco has found the right vials. He wants nothing more than to pour both the replenishing potions and the antidote to Nagini’s venom down his godfather’s throat, yet knows too much about lethal interactions of such remedies to act impulsively. 

He thinks he can see pride in Severus’s eyes, but that might just be wishful thinking. 

You have fought valiantly. 

The high, cold voice cuts through the air and extends an armistice as he administers treatment. Draco pauses in his actions, feeling an icy fist grip his heart upon hearing the Dark Lord’s demand for Harry to come to the Forbidden Forrest. 

Knowing Harry, the idiot will actually consider it. 

“Don’t listen to him.” The same though seems to have occurred to Ron. 

“It’ll be all right,” Hermione continues. She sounds panicked. “Let’s – let’s get back to the castle; if he’s gone to the forest we’ll need to think of a new plan.”

“I’ll stay here,” Draco says. “I can’t give him the antidote just yet. Need something to dilute the side effects.”

“Antidote?” Harry speaks for the first time. The green of his eyes seems muted. 

“I spent months at the Manor with that sodding snake; of course I worked out a cure for her poison. I’m not an idiot, Harry.” 

It fails to make the other man’s lips twitch. Draco sighs, sitting back on his heels to allow the paste he whipped up to steep for a moment. 

“Hermione’s right. You need to get back and formulate a new plan with the rest of the troupes. I’ll follow as soon as Snape will survive being levitated to the castle.”

Which is easier said than done, Draco finds. Having handed Harry whatever memories he so desperately needed to share, Snape grows detached. It’s almost as if he had given up on seeing the light of the next day. 

“You won’t die on my watch, Severus,” Draco mutters, more to assure himself than the man beneath his hands. “Come on, I already lost Father to this war. I’m not going to lose you as well.” 

Draco doesn’t know how much time passes but eventually, he extracts the rest of the venom from Snape’s body and Snape’s pulse transforms from a faint hint of one to something stronger. 

He breathes a sigh of relief. 

Snape lifts his eyes with great effort. “Thank you.”

“Well. Considering what you did, you probably didn’t deserve this. But…” Draco swallows, unable to finish the sentence. 

Snape’s expression turns constricted. “It was his orders I acted on.”

It takes a few seconds to grasp the implications. When he does, Draco blinks. “Why would Dumbledore order you to kill him?”

“His hand…” Snape's voice is no more than a whisper. “The curse was only contained.” 

“But – you’re a double agent, you’re a Death Eater,” Draco states, yet his conviction is quickly wavering, especially since Snape is shaking his head. “You – you’ve been on his side? All this time?”

Draco rubs a hand over his face. It comes away with dirty smudges. 

“Is that what the memories were about?” Draco barges on. “You wanted Harry to know before you – no. That doesn’t make any sense. Why waste the energy if not -” Draco’s eyes widen and he stares at his godfather. 

All words die in his throat. 

There is only one thing that could possible be important enough that Severus had to ensure Harry learns prior to the final battle. 

Draco jumps to his feet, his mind eerily blank. “We need to get back to the castle.”

The journey from the Shrieking Shack to the Great Hall takes an eternity with Snape levitating next to him and anxiety coursing through Draco’s veins. The grounds speak of hard battles with matching wounds – some of them fatal – inside the Hall. 

Draco lowers Snape onto a quickly conjured mattress just off to the side of the double doors that stand gapingly open. There is movement everywhere, pained hisses blending with sobs and cries. The sight of the Weasley family huddling together drives a sharp jab into Draco’s chest. 

He turns back to Snape who is still pale as a sheet and in quite some pain, even if his eyes are closed and his breath more even now that he isn’t being moved about. 

“I believe a glamour would be advisable for such a controversial patient.”

The voice makes Draco flinch. 

He barely recognises Remus Lupin underneath all the blood and grime, with teeth eerily canine-shaped. He must have been the second wolf on the grounds that night. 

“I was about to do that, sir,” Draco says truthfully, then makes good on his word. 

“Do you know where Harry went?” 

For a split second, Draco considers lying. 

“I couldn’t say. Snape gave him some memories – maybe he’s looking for a Pensieve.” 

“Memories?” Lupin’s brow furrows in confusion. 

Draco’s mouth is parchment-dry. “Yes. I believe Snape was still operating on Dumbledore’s orders.”

“Is that why you saved him?”

His terse reply slips out before Draco manages to stop himself. “I saved him because he is my godfather.”

To his surprise, Lupin’s mouth twists into an approximation of a smile. “I’m glad you did. Enough people have lost their lives tonight.”

_And Harry will be one of them._

The thought does terrible things to Draco. The smell of blood and death permeating the Great Hall is overwhelming all of a sudden. 

“Could you watch him?” he manages to ask. “I need to fetch some ingredients.”

The other man nods with an air of sincerity and Draco is on his feet a heartbeat later. He does check the storage closet closest to the Entrance Hall, but not after taking several minutes to simply close his eyes and catch his breath. Longbottom and Wood interrupt his reprieve, carrying corpses. 

It’s on his way back to the Great Hall that Draco feels a prickling sensation at the base of his skull. The tingling is strangely familiar, yet he knows the Entrance Hall to be empty except for him. 

Which can only mean one thing. 

His eyes dart about the space frantically until something draws their attention a mere two metres away. _There._ Draco feels Harry’s presence like that of another limb, even if he cannot see the boy. 

The knowledge that he will never, ever see him again almost brings Draco to his knees. 

He is aware of the tears welling up in his eyes but he fights them off – that’s not how he wants Harry to remember him. He isn’t foolish enough to try for a smile, so he just looks on and whispers one last “I love you”, only for Harry to hear. 

The front doors creak as something passes them by. 

Draco draws a shaky breath and returns to the Great Hall. Severing an arm might have been kinder than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hands-out-tissues* I made myself cry writing this chapter… despite the knowledge of what is to come. Also, I couldn’t kill Fred. Just nope. Sorry about Bill, but… no. And Draco wouldn’t let his godfather die, which I’m fully on-board with. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	11. The Break of Dawn

Harry feels the soft moss against his cheeks before he smells it. The Forrest, so quiet when he approached, is loud with the cries of Voldemort’s followers and Bellatrix’s “My Lord”s. 

“I do not require assistance,” Harry hears Voldemort say. Has he stumbled, too? “The boy... is he dead?” 

No movement nor sound reaches Harry who keeps his breath shallow and tries to keep as still as a corpse. 

“You. Examine him, tell me whether he is dead.”

Harry’s heart leaps into his throat. Blood is rushing in his ears and it’s so loud that he’s sure it will be heard and give him away.

Hands, slender but strong, find the vein in Harry’s neck as a boy’s torso bows over him. 

“Seamus... is he alive?” a familiar voice whispers. Theo’s father must have collected his son when Voldemort rallied his forces. 

Harry saw Seamus, his eyes alight with the force of his explosives and pyrotechnics. 

“Yes,” he breathes back. 

“He’s dead!” Theodore Nott shouts. 

Harry vows to find a way to thank his classmate for this act of bravery. Maybe a new gaming console, or something with astronauts and cavemen. It won’t ever be enough, but imagining Theo and Seamus’s glee and ensuing bickering is enough to carry Harry through Voldemort’s Cruciatus Curse. 

*

“Will you help treat the others?”

Lupin’s question penetrates the veil that is shrouding Draco’s mind and it takes inconceivable effort to lift his head from where he is bandaging Snape’s wounds. The dittany won’t keep the scaring at bay entirely, not with so much dark energy used on inflicting the wounds, but he will have done all he can for his godfather in another minute. The Hall is still overflowing with the injured. 

Draco makes himself nod. He fastens the bandage with a wave of his right hand, then pauses. The glamour would fail, should Draco be killed in the next siege. After gathering his supplies, he erects a wall around Snape that blends in perfectly with the decor to shield him from both prying eyes and straying spells. 

When he turns his attention back to the werewolf, Lupin’s eyes have widened. 

Draco glances at his hand. He completely forgot his wand inside its holster. 

Other than the obvious surprise, however, Lupin doesn’t react. “Come. There are some severe cases.” 

Draco follows. His old self would have bristled and sneered at him for obeying a werewolf. Today, the sentiment is a mystery to him. 

Healing scrapes and bruises, administering potions and providing quick remedies occupies his hands and mind, so Draco focuses on it with every fibre of his being. He doubts he will remember his patients’ faces in the hours or days to come. 

One stands out, though. 

“Padfoot, it’s still bleeding.” 

“It’s nothing, Moony, I’m fine. I don’t want to waste resources.” 

“Sit,” Lupin growls – literally _growls_ \- at the handsome man Draco recognises dimly from Wanted posters and very, very old family photos. 

“All right, luv, sitting down now, don’t get your sexy knickers in a twist! Oh, hullo there. You’re Malfoy, aren’t you? Harry’s Malfoy? Not Voldemort’s?” 

“Draco,” he manages. He isn’t as successful in hiding his twitch at hearing the name. 

“Aw, scared of a name? Colour me surprised –” 

“Sirius,” Lupin growls again, causing Black to throw up his head and shoot the wolf a grin. 

Draco closes his eyes briefly and pushes a strand of hair from his face. When he meets the grey eyes of the man who is the closest thing Harry has to a father, he is so professional it makes his teeth hurt. 

“What can I help you with?” 

“Well, for one, tell me what my godson is up to; last message he sent me was ages ago and I’m sure a dog can take that rotten snake any–” 

“His arm,” Lupin interrupts, pulling back the robes covering Black’s left biceps none too gently. 

Draco hisses at the sight of the wound. He recalls the black dog he saw on the grounds, then Harry’s tales of the Marauders. “Greyback?” 

“Bastard nicked me; it’s nothing,” Black waves a dismissive hand. 

“Of course,” Draco’s voice is dripping in sarcasm. “A werewolf powerful enough to transform into his lupine form without the aid of the full moon – what threat can his bite possibly pose to a few pounds of fur and flees?” 

“Oi, I’m a very clea– buggering fuck!” Black yelps. 

The essence of vinegar Draco applied onto the wound cleanses bites from many beasts. It also burns like hell. 

His demeanour at least grants him some respite from questions he doesn't want to answer. As soon as Draco is done tending to the wound and providing Lupin with aftercare instructions, Black swarms off. 

“Apologies for Sirius. He doesn't handle unexplained absences well.” 

Anything Draco can think of saying in response would show his hand, so he opts for a curt nod. The wolf grimaces - it might have been intended as a smile - and follows Black over to where Hermione is dabbing at the cut on Blaise's temple. Draco himself looks around for Ron, spying him near his grieving family, seated slightly apart.

He thinks he should say something, but the words die on his tongue. 

The Dark Lord, however, has them in spades. 

“Harry Potter is dead. He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him. We bring you his body as proof that your hero is gone. The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished. There must be no more war. Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together.”

Disbelief. Anger. Vocal protests. Cries of “Never!” and “He’s lying!” blend with broken sobs and whimpers into a horrifying symphony. 

Draco follows the crowds, zombie-like. The thought evokes happier times, spent on the sofa with Ianto and a bowl of popcorn between them, of drunken ramblings and afternoon tea. Draco knows Ianto will be fine - Narcissa will see to it, even if Draco will never return. 

Seeing Harry’s body, small in the groundskeeper’s huge hands, is still startling, even though Draco had an hour to prepare himself. The damned snake is right there, alive and well, spelling their failure in every slither. 

Draco finds Hermione’s eyes. Seeing her heartbreak is like a slap to the face. Ron is scarlet with fury and pain, fighting tears. 

“He beat you!” Ron flings at the Dark Lord and Longbottom stands his ground, proving after seven years that the Sorting Hat had put him where he belonged. 

Throughout all of it, though, Draco keeps his eyes on Harry’s body. Which is the only reason he sees the Boy Who Lived sneak out his Invisibility Cloak and slip away in the chaos of giants, centaurs and Longbottom wielding the Sword of Gryffindor. 

Before any positive emotion can truly register, however, adrenaline pushes Draco into action. He flings jinxes at hooded figures, ducks when he sees a Hippogriff swooping in, casts shield charm and evades giants until he, too, is swept into the entrance hall by the battle. 

_He’s alive_ becomes a never-ending chant inside his head. 

Now that the snake is dead, Draco assumes Harry will seek out the Dark Lord himself. And indeed, he notes hexes coming from nowhere, shields flickering into existence in front of Order members, students pushed out of the line of fire by unexplained causes and many more odd occurrences in a tight radius of where He himself is fighting. 

The wall he erected around Severus is still in place, but it’s too risky leaving it unguarded. Draco blasts a Death Eater from the table closest to it, then leaps up himself. His elevated position grants him a unique perspective over the battle. It’s blatant from this vantage point: the Dark Lord is losing. 

He spies the house-elves attacking with pans and knives and a new group of fighters that looks like a conglomeration of shopkeepers and parents as more and more Death Eaters are torn down and incapacitated. With a bark so loud it carries across the battle, the big black dog launches at Fenrir Greyback. With the help of Ron and Neville, Black brings him down. 

That fight pales in comparison to the Dark Lord taking on McGonagall, Lupin, and Kingsley all at once, right next to where aunt Bellatrix is sending Killing Curses at Hermione, Luna, and the Weaslette. 

Draco, poised to cast a shield charm at any second, watches in awe as Mrs Weasley enters the fight, her red hair as fiery as her aura, fuelled by the kind of furious grief only a parent is capable of. 

He knows his mother still cares for her sister. He knows that somewhere, deep in his mind, he has fond memories of Bellatrix Lestrange. None of that spurs him into action to save her from Mrs Weasley’s curse. He watches Bellatrix die along with hundreds of other witches and wizards, as well as one black dog. 

One second later, the dog is on the move again: not to attack but to defend. Black’s teeth fasten on Lupin’s sleeve, tearing him down and saving him from one of many green jets spewing from the Dark Lord’s wand. 

Draco knows what’s coming: has seen the movement too many times back in the Manor: in his fury over losing his best general, his old Master is aiming for another kill. Whip-fast, Draco slashes a dark curse the wizard’s way. 

The Dark Lord parries without hesitation, yet it draws his attention away from Black. Red, slanted eyes find Draco and narrow in anger. 

Maybe this wasn’t such a brilliant idea after all.

“Draco,” the Dark Lord intones. “I had hoped to find you tonight.”

His mouth goes dry. He can see the small tremors in his hand, the knuckles turning white from gripping the wand too tight.

“You can still save yourself, Draco. You have taken my Mark. Recommit yourself to my cause and I shall spare your mother.”

The mention of his mother only worsens Draco’s paralysis, the state of constant anxiety from that summer in the Manor still too fresh in his mind. Draco knows he should fight back but it’s physically impossible for him to do. 

The Dark Lord’s lips twist into a smile. “Join me, Draco. Join the winning side.”

“If you really still think you’re winning,” comes the voice of Sirius Black from behind the Dark Lord’s back, “then you’re delusional on top of barking mad, Voldy.”

Furious at the nickname – and probably at the blood traitor who used it – the Dark Lord turns, raising his wand even as Draco registers the powerful thrum of magic emanating from the man. 

Yet before Draco can think about acting, a movement close to Black catches his eye. 

Harry pulls the Cloak from his head and bellows, “ _PROTEGO_!” with enough force that Draco is unsurprised when the _Avada Kedavra_ does not reach its target. 

There are cheers and yells of joy, though a hush falls over the crowd when the Dark Lord turns his red eyes upon Harry, who stands taller than Draco remembers. Whatever happened gave him another layer of strength and it would be enticing if Draco weren’t still quite scared for his life. 

“I don’t want anyone else to help.” Harry’s voice carries easily in the complete silence of the Great Hall. “It’s got to be like this. It’s got to be me.”

“Potter doesn’t mean that,” the Dark Lord hisses. “This isn’t how he works, is it? Who are you going to use as a shield today, Potter?”

Harry doesn’t rise to the bait. “Nobody. There are no more Horcruxes. It’s just you and me. Neither can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good…”

Along with the crowd, Draco watches with his heart in his throat as his boyfriend bloody well _taunts_ the most dangerous wizard to ever walk the earth. Taunts him with the power of love, above all things, and with where Snape’s true allegiance lies. 

When the conversation turns upon the Elder Wand, the atmosphere between the two combatants shifts. Draco has learned to read Harry’s body better than most, though even without his intimate knowledge he would be able to tell Harry is preparing for the grand finale.

Draco inches a few steps forward on the table without a clue as to what it is, exactly, that his closeness might achieve. All he knows is that, should Harry fail, Draco doesn’t want to be across the room. 

“ _The wand chooses the wizard_ ,” Harry quotes almost whimsically. “You’re right – the Elder Wand recognised a new master before Dumbledore died, but he in turn was defeated before you got to him in the Shrieking Shack.” A smile tugs at Harry’s lips, then. “I doubt the wand’s new master even realised exactly what he had done, or that the world’s most dangerous wand had given him its allegiance…”

Draco’s breath catches in his throat. The Dark Lord looks moments away from snapping. 

“The true master of the Elder Wand is Draco Malfoy.”

The shocked gasp that escapes Draco is echoed around the Hall as well as in the Dark Lord’s snake-like features before it turns into an ugly sneer. 

“And what are you to Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter?” the man jeers. 

“Everything.”

Harry’s eyes meet Draco’s, holding his gaze. The one percentile of Draco’s brain that has not fallen prey to adrenaline and anxiety wants to scream at his partner for allowing himself to be distracted in the most important fight of his life. 

The other part confirms the sentiment thousand-fold. 

The moment breaks as the Dark Lord throws his head back and laughs, loud over the silence.

“ _Love_. Of _course_ ,” The man’s cold voice is seeped in distain. “Love will not save you now.” 

Harry whispers something to himself, too low for Draco to hear. A split-second later, both wizards are shouting, red and green bursting from their respective wands and meet in a ball of golden flames with the sound like a canon blast. 

Draco drops his own wand and focuses his magic and every single thought, every fibre of his being on the Elder Wand. If he truly is its master, the distance won’t matter. His eyes fall shut and then the world becomes only sensation, magic swirling all around him, emotions bleeding from his hands, instincts taking over. 

The Elder Wand heeds his call – both _Expelliarmus_ and _Avada Kedavra_ are redirected on its wielder, whose magic surges for the length of one heartbeat, then dies with him. 

A dull _thump_ follows as the Dark Lord’s corpse hits the ground. 

Draco opens his eyes to deafening cheers. 

His knees give out from the strain on his magic but he doesn’t care – it’s _over_ , they _won_. He’s still breathing but what’s more important, so is Harry, inexplicably so. It is better than any outcome Draco dared imagine and for a moment he simply sits back and looks towards the ceiling with a sigh of relief. 

Dawn has broken. The rays of early sunlight on his features make Draco rise to his feet. Pocketing his Hawthorn wand, he climbs from the table. Harry seems to be at the centre of the large crowd ahead of him, all wishing to touch their saviour. Draco would be jealous if not for what just transpired. They have time now, all the time in the world, to be amongst themselves. Let them congratulate their hero. 

Out of nowhere, Blaise hugs him. Draco answers in kind, drunk on victory. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Order members setting after several Death Eaters who are trying to seize the moment to make their escape. 

As he draws nearer to Harry, others notice his approach. To Draco’s complete astonishment, the crowd _parts_ to let him through. 

Harry’s cheeks must be hurting from all the smiling, he muses, but that doesn’t stop the other boy from smiling even wider when he sees Draco. 

Draco swallows. Those in their vicinity have grown quiet. For all that he wants to just fly into Harry’s arms, he does have a reputation to uphold. A Malfoy does not let an opportunity like this go to waste. 

So Draco cocks an eyebrow. “I reckon we’ll be calling you The Boy Who Lived Again, now? Didn’t you have enough titles already, Potter?” 

Harry’s expression is priceless. 

“You utter git, Malfoy,” he splutters, but there is mirth in his tone and his eyes are so full of emotion that Draco can’t resist their pull anymore. 

They hug for what might have been years or just mere seconds, then Draco pulls back enough to seek Harry’s eyes. Their first kiss makes it all the more real. 

“You did it,” he whispers in awe. 

Harry shakes his head. “We did it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, you all!   
> I'm so glad I finished this in time for today <3 I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. 
> 
> Best wishes from Swansea :) I'm spending Xmas with a dear friend of mine who is studying here. And YES, I laughed out loud when I realised I'd be where Draco's safe house is over Christmas. Guess what I'm seeking out today? *grins*


	12. Reconstruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year to y’all! It’s a good sign that 2017 starts with posting new fic *cheers*. Also, a happy Sherlock Day to those who share my hysteria about the new episode :)

The initial jubilant mood cannot continue indefinitely – there are too many wounded, too many restrained Death Eaters to allow such luxuries. 

Draco leaves Harry to reunite with his godfather and Remus Lupin while he pulls Pansy with him to where he hid his supplies before venturing outside to meet the Dark Lord’s army. 

It feels like a lifetime ago already. 

“Ouch, Draco, have you never heard of bedside manner?” 

“Stop whining, it’s just dittany.”

“It stings!”

“It’s an open wound, what did you expect?” Draco huffs, coaxing some of Pansy’s skin to close over it to speed up the healing process. 

“So, is this wandless healing thing you’re doing something you learnt in hiding, or did that come with being the master of the Elder Wand?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “I’ve never even held the thing. Where’s Longbottom?”

“Oh, you mean the one who killed You-Know-Who’s snake?” Pansy grins, decidedly smug. 

“What, no nickname?” Draco snorts. “How about, Wielder of the Sword?”

Pansy shoves him playfully. “Don’t be daft.” Her expression falters. “And he’s… removing the body. Somewhere away from everyone else.”

Draco coughs. “Well. Yes… Now turn to the side and shut up so I can access the gash on your shoulder.”

The break in banter is a welcome reprieve, though it is by no means enough for Draco to come to grips with this entire situation. The Elder Wand. He has no idea what to make of this. 

“Oi, Healer Malfoy,” someone calls. “I’ve got a patient for you!”

Draco finishes tending to Pansy before turning around. As expected, he comes face to face with Seamus Finnegan, looking even worse than he did inside the Room of Requirement given the addition of singed eyebrows, dried blood and soot.

The patient the boy is referring to, however, is none other than a very pale Theodore Nott. 

“And what can I do for you, Theo?”

“I’m fine.”

“Bollocks!” Seamus argues. “Got tackled by a Thestral, this one, didn’t you? You’re all wobbly on your feet, too.”

All it takes is one look into Theo’s brown eyes to see the grief weighing him down. Too many pieces of the puzzle are missing but Draco would bet half the Malfoy fortune that Theo’s father will be amongst the list of casualties. 

A few diagnostic charms show two cracked ribs for which Draco promises Theo SkeleGro as soon as he has brewed some – or Madame Pomfrey has brought some to the Great Hall – as well as a serious case of malnutrition he refrains from commenting on. As much as Theo might be glad to be reunited with Seamus, the war did leave its marks on the boy. 

Draco orders him bed rest, conjures a mattress near the wall still hiding Severus, and tells Seamus to find his boyfriend something to eat, then let him sleep. 

Running a hand through his hair, Draco surveys the Great Hall. Near the head table, Harry is making his rounds. These people still want more from him, even after he laid down his life. Want him to shake their hand, listen to their stories, their woes, their contributions. And Harry wouldn’t be who he is if he didn’t indulge them without hesitation. 

A patch of fur catches Draco’s eyes. 

Apparently, he is not the only one worried about how long Harry will remain upright in light of the tribulations of the past few days. As if feeling his eyes on him, the dog stops and looks to Draco. The animal nods, the movement barely noticeable except for those hoping to see it. 

Well, it might not be an invitation to Sunday dinner at the family estate – although Draco doubts Black has much patience for such pureblood customs – but at least Harry’s godfather seems to have accepted him. Draco can build on that.

“Fred to Malfoy.”

Draco blinks at… not-Fred. “You’re George.”

The Weasley bursts into laughter. “Merlin’s beard, that’s bloody brilliant! Anyhoo, we’re moving all injured across the Entrance Hall. Poppy’s setting up a lazaret of sorts and she’s been watching you play Healer. Wants you to help, if you’re not too busy making crup eyes as Harry over there.”

“I’m not making crup eyes,” Draco scoffs, belatedly realising that such an outburst will not help his case. 

George waves off his indignation. “You better relax, Malfoy. It’ll be a lot more fun teasing you if you get riled up so easily.”

“Why would you tease me?”

“Oh, you have much to learn, little one,” George jeers, glee in his voice. “Now come on, I don’t want to undo all your work by falsely levitating anyone and giving them Hilbert Hives.”

“Hilbert Hives are –” Draco begins, but trails off with a shake of his head. 

The improvised hospital wing reminds Draco more of war documentaries he watched with Ianto than the Hogwarts infirmary, yet in the very least it is efficiently set up. 

Madame Pomfrey quickly shows him to the potion stock and ingredients, then sends him off to deal with the more urgent injuries. This time, the faces do not merely blend together but stand out, and the elevated mood contributes much to his patients’ will to live. 

News from all over the country reaches them by means of visitors: the Imperiused have returned to their wits, the Dementors have up and left, and apparently, some chap named Kingsley Shacklebolt has been appointed interim Minister for Magic.

Whose first order of business is to check with Madam Pomfrey. 

“Oh, Minister!”

“Please, Poppy,” the man intones in a low voice. “Let’s stay with Kingsley.”

He looks about as exhausted as everyone the castle, yet the responsibility straightens his spine. He is still in his scarlet Auror robes and Draco recalls seeing him in the Room of Requirement. 

“Fine, Kingsley,” Madame Pomfrey acknowledges. She does not cease mixing in herbs with the remedy she is making. “What do you need? We’re still a bit behind.”

“I would like, if you have it… a final count of those we lost.”

It speaks of Madame Pomfrey’s passion for her profession that she does not require a file to find out. Draco’s respect for the woman continues to grow. 

“On our side, we lost 53. Including He-Who- including Voldemort, there are 27 dead followers. But some of those arrested are severely injured. One of the snatchers, someone hit him with a flesh-eating curse and I’m afraid his chances are slim.”

Draco almost speaks up at that. He would let the bloke die a gruesome death after all the horror he must have inflicted during the battle, but Shacklebolt places a hand on Madame Pomfrey’s arm before Draco finds the breath. 

“You’re doing the best you can, Poppy. We must ensure everyone receives equal treatment, both now and later during their trial.”

“Then you might be interested in the patient in bed thirteen, Kingsley.”

Shacklebolt raises an eyebrow in question. Madame Pomfrey’s eyes find Draco’s. “Why don’t you show the Minister to him, Mr Malfoy?”

All bandages have been applied for two entire minutes. Draco steps back from the student hiding their smirk in the pillow, caught. 

“If you would follow me, Minister.”

Shacklebolt merely nods and does as asked. Not that Draco expected an offer of using the man’s given name. He leads him to the far side of the room where Severus's identity is still hidden from onlookers. At Shacklebolt’s quizzical gaze, Draco lifts the spell long enough for him to process who is lying on the infirmary bed. 

“I’ve given him a combination of dreamless sleep and a mild anaesthetic. His body still needs time to regenerate. 

Shacklebolt’s features are a canvas – he will have to learn how to school his expression if he truly intends to enter the dragon’s nest of politics, Draco muses - morphing from a surprised widening of his dark eyes to a scowl, eventually settling on a smirk.

“He will undoubtedly be hailed a hero, after Harry’s little speech.” The thought obviously gives Shacklebolt some kind of satisfaction. “Severus will hate that.” 

Draco chuckles. “If your goal is to aggravate him, sir, you should add an Order of Merlin.”

“Perhaps I will,” Shacklebolt says, turning away from the controversial figure to regard Draco more closely. “You have surprised many people today, Mr Malfoy. We are fortunate to have you on our side.”

Draco doesn’t know what to do with that. More so with the fact that he doesn’t feel any need to correct the Minister. There is no use denying it - Draco has firmly crossed the line between neutral and Light at some point during these past exciting days. 

It’s a strange feeling, though not in a negative way. And it makes him bold.

“May I ask a favour then, Minister?” he dares, then continues when the other man inclines his head. “I’d like to contact my mother. She might be a considerable help orchestrating the reconstruction process here, if she’s so inclined. And,” Draco presses on, his pulse quickening, “there’s a boy living at the safe house with us. A Muggle. Is it possible he, too, could come through?” 

“Are you asking me to exempt this young gentleman from the International Statute of Secrecy, Mr Malfoy?”

“I’m afraid that Occamy egg hatched when a house-elf apparated right into our garden with Harry and a goblin, among others.” 

A beat. “I see.” 

If father instilled anything in Draco, then it is the ability to stifle any babbling, regardless of how strong the urge is to do so. Words want to tumble from his lips, reassuring Shacklebolt of Ianto’s character, but he holds his tongue. 

After a long pause, the man nods. “It’s no use lamenting spilt milk.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Keep up the good work, Mr Malfoy.”

When they part, there is a spring in Draco’s step. 

*

Draco intended to floo for his mother himself, but one mid-twenties witch suddenly starts spasming on her bed and bleeding from her pores. All of them. Draco is closer than any of the other mediwizards, meaning he not only gets a warm sense of satisfaction when the witch is stable again, but also the majority of the patients’ blood all over his clothes. 

His trousers and shirt have been scourgified one too many times approximately two hours ago. His blood sugar has reached dangerous lows, and once the adrenaline that the emergency produced clears his system, Draco recognises how delayed his reflexes are the rest of time. 

Madame Pomfrey takes one look at him and sends him off with strict orders to find something to eat and then a place to sleep. 

“I need to floo my mother first,” Draco objects, albeit weakly. 

The woman shakes her head and fetches a house-elf who is more than happy to relay Draco’s message. Draco stumbles from the infirmary, though instead of continuing on to the Great Hall, which smells delicious to his ravenous person, he seeks out a bathroom first. 

Indeed, he looks ghastly. His appearance is ruffled, his hair matted. There are shadows under his eyes that would make Father scowl. 

“At least it’s not as bad as in sixth year,” Draco murmurs. 

The door creaks as he is splashing ice cold water on his face. With a sense of déjà vu, he meets Harry’s eyes via the mirror, Invisibility Cloak slipping from his head. The boy’s presence is enough to coax a smile from Draco’s exhausted body. 

Harry’s answering one is steeped in concern. “How are you still standing, Draco?” 

“I could ask the same.”

“All I’m doing is talking with people and sending Padfoot off to play with the children who somehow ended up here. You've been performing extensive healing magic, or so I’ve heard.” 

Harry comes to a stop not even two steps from him. Almost as if he isn't sure he is allowed to draw nearer. Draco closes the distance between them without hesitation. 

“Who told you?” he asks, winding his arms round Harry's torso. 

“Kingsley.” 

“Of course you're on a first name basis with the sodding Minister for Magic…” 

“And you get expedited exemptions from the Statute of Secrecy.” 

Draco’s fingers pause where they are running circles into Harry's skin. “They’ve arrived already?” 

The question makes Harry grin. “Your mother immediately joined Hermione, Moony, Percy, and Kingsley in their... I don’t even know. From what I heard, it sounded like a five-year plan of how to reform Wizarding Society, but it started when Hermione was fretting over how long the rebuild would take and having to repeat a year to get her Newts.” 

A laugh escapes Draco. “Naturally. Good thing I studied a lot. I’ll just sit the exams.”

Harry blinks. 

“And regarding the rebuild… Let me guess, there will be a gala?” 

Harry’s lips twitch, then his expression turns sheepish. “Uh, yes. And, well. Your mother might have volunteered the Manor as a shelter. And she mentioned something about the Lestrange Estate?” 

Now it’s Draco's turn to blink. Then he connects the dots. 

“Right, Rudolphus died as well. They must have named me their heir since they never had children.” He feels his brow furrow. “But the Estate has been collecting dust since my aunt and uncle went to Azkaban.” 

Harry squints. “Your mother mentioned something about needing time to prepare it.”

He can imagine that. But after almost a year at the safe house, Draco reckons she will also be grateful for having something to do. “What about Ianto?”

“Relieved that you’re fine. And a tad overwhelmed by everything, I reckon.” 

“I need to see that,” Draco says but makes no move to leave the solitude of the bathroom. 

Harry presses a quick kiss to his lips. “In a bit. There's something I need from you, first.” 

Draco can’t resist. He’s also beyond the point of caring how ridiculous he must look, grinning from ear to ear, saying, “Everything.” 

The blush his allusion elicits is delectable. “No - I mean, yes; just get under the cloak, all right?” 

Harry leads them to the headmaster’s office, which takes Draco by surprise, yet even more curious is the fact that Hermione and Ron are waiting for them. 

There is no need for words. The three of them exchange nods that carry the strain of the past 48 hours. 

The portraits, on the other hand, erupt in applause. The sudden noise makes all four of them almost jump out of their skin.

Harry silences them with a raised hand. Draco’s pulse does not quicken at that. It doesn’t. 

“The thing that was hidden in the Snitch,” Harry begins, his eyes on Dumbledore. 

Draco narrows his eyes at the weird comment but decides to ask about it later. The former headmaster seems to know what Harry is on about, and it only contributes to the proud look on the old man’s face. 

“I dropped it in the forest. I don’t know exactly where, but I’m not going to go looking for it again. Do you agree?”

“My dear boy, I do,” Dumbledore says. “A wise and courageous decision, but no less than I would have expected of you. Does anyone else know where it fell?”

“No one. I’m going to keep Ignotus’s present, though.”

“But of course, Harry, it is yours forever, until you pass it on.”

“And then there’s this.”

Harry produces the broken pieces of his own wand as well as the Elder Wand from his pockets. Draco tilts his head and regards it curiously. It looks like any other wand, if he is being honest, apart from the power Draco can feel even from where he is standing. 

Hermione and Ron, meanwhile, seem enthralled. Draco catches the flash of distaste in Harry’s eyes as he, too, notices his best friends’ fascination. 

“Will you mend my wand for me, Draco?” 

The opportunity for innuendo is tempting. Too bad Draco is too baffled to seize it. 

“Me?”

“You defeated Professor Snape. The wand’s allegiance lies with you. It’s not mine to use. Well. Except for emergencies,” he adds with a smirk. 

Draco looks up to Dumbledore, uncertain. He knows the legends, after all: while the thought of wielding an object of this status will undoubtedly help re-establish the Malfoy name in post-war society, possessing it will also paint a target on Draco’s back.

From his portrait, Dumbledore’s expression gives nothing away. Weasley’s features have contorted into a scowl of resigned jealousy. Hermione looks equally envious. She reminds Draco of Brackan in bed seven, whose eyes have been following anyone capable of walking. Spell damage mucked up the bloke’s legs and projections are anything but favourable. Brackan is a professional Quidditch player.

With the power of the Elder Wand, would Draco be able to heal him? With the wand in his hand, what incredible feats would he be able to accomplish that are beyond the realm of possibility for the rest of the wizarding world?

Draco reaches out tentatively. As soon as his fingers close around the wood, sparks shoot from its tip. 

Draco doesn’t shriek. He does not. 

It doesn’t feel like holding a wand, more like an extension of his arm. With a sense of déjà vu, Draco thinks back to his visit to Ollivander as an eleven-year-old. As per request, the first thing he does is touch the broken pieces Harry is holding in his extended hand. 

_Reparo._

The wood knits together. Draco nods encouragingly and Harry makes his Invisibility Cloak float smoothly before grinning at Draco. “Thanks.” 

“I have some spell damage to heal in bed seven,” is his response, already making for the door of the headmaster’s office. 

“You’ve been banned from the hospital wing!” his partner calls after him, underscored by Dumbledore’s hearty laughter. 

*

“Where is that punter? I’m supposed to get some food in him and then strap him to the bed, or else Cissa said she’d turn me into a toad. A toad!”

In the hour since Harry has last seen Ianto, the Muggle boy has calmed visibly. From Draco’s stories, Ianto does strike Harry as a pretty adaptive bloke. Being the only Muggle in battle-ridden Hogwarts might be just one more punch the kid has to roll with.

“He, uh, said something about a patient in –” 

“But he’s banned!” Ianto snaps. “You know what, never mind. I’ll drag him off myself. You’re obviously too wrapped around his sodding finger.” 

The second person that day storms off on Harry in a hurry, not sparing him another glance. 

“Makes you miss all the adoring looks from this morning and the respect that came with being hailed a hero, doesn’t it?”

Harry grins, turning towards his godfather. They hug for what feels like the twelfth time. Harry doubts it’ll be the last today. 

“So, it’s done?”

Instead of replying Harry holds up his mended wand. 

“And the…?”

Harry sighs. “Draco’s healing the sick again.” 

“Never pegged him for the altruistic kind, to be honest.” 

“I don’t think he sees it that way,” Harry says, shaking his head. “To him, it’ll be about proving himself; showing off. He’ll get here, though.” 

Sirius shrugs. “If word gets out, it’ll cause trouble.” 

“I think we can handle it.” 

Hearing the barked laughter makes his heart sing. “I’d thought you’d have had enough of that for a lifetime, Harry.” 

“Maybe…” Then he grins. “But what would I do without it?” 

Sirius pulls him close again, inhaling deeply. Harry can feel his godfather’s throat convulse against his cheek and feels his eyes burn. Exhaustion has furrowed deep into his bones.

“You. Bed. Now,” Sirius orders in his best parental figure tone. “Let’s find my cousin.” 

Stifling a yawn, Harry almost misses the throw-away comment. 

Sirius averts his eyes. “Well. Guess aunt Cissa isn’t so bad, after some quality time with Muggles. Moony has gone to the Lestrange Estate with her to check what’s got to be done before the cubs can move in.” 

Harry can’t even begin to make sense of that. Thankfully, Sirius notices his befuddled expression and explains that the war left a large number of orphans behind. Some of them survived Greyback’s assaults and will need extra guidance in the months to come. 

“I’m more than ready to start doing something other than hiding at home, and if Moony wants to adopt Mini-Moonies, I reckon Padfoot could help. Besides, kids adore dogs.”

Over the course of Sirius’s explanations, his tone has grown fonder and fonder: Harry’s mind supplies sun-filled glimpses into what good the future could bring. Everything is possible. 

A yawn interrupts his musings, followed by Draco’s teasing drawl. 

“Really, if Skeeter had seen that. Not how a Saviour comports himself, is it?” 

“Toss off, the bloke’s as dead on his feet as you,” Ianto admonishes. “Now off you go. Sleep.” 

Draco chuckles. “Here, behind the marble staircase? Hardly befitting our station.” 

“Yeah, arrogant pricks get to camp under the stars,” Sirius throws in. “I heard the common rooms have adjusted to handle the additional guests.” 

Harry’s eyes light up. “Come on,” he says and grabs Draco’s hand. 

“This isn’t the way to the dungeons! No, I’m not sleeping in the red and gold abomination your house calls a dorm!” 

Harry skids to a halt around a corner. Draco collides with his side but he anticipated that, one hand already raised to steady the blond. Harry gives Draco his best pleading look.

“Please, Draco.” 

Draco swears. “Not fair.” 

Harry shuffles close and noses Draco’s jaw. His finger burrow under the hem of Draco’s untucked shirt. 

“All right, fine!” 

Harry kisses the adorable indignation right off Draco’s face. 

For the first time in what feels like _years_ , Harry is able to rest. 

_Well_ , Harry amends as he sees Remus and Mrs Malfoy pass by at the other end of the hallway, deep in conversation by the looks of it, _at least for tonight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter was enjoyable for you - I had a blast writing it, and I'm having loads of fun with the epilogue already (hint: we get to see the Dursleys!). ALSO, I definitely see future one-offs in this series's future! I have so many headcanons....
> 
>  **03-2017:** The epilogue is half-finished, but I sort of hit a wall with it at the moment. I don't want to "ruin" this fic by posting a lackluster epilogue, so I'm waiting for my Muse to figure out what the issue is and solve it. I'm immensely grateful for all comments, so please don't be shy if you enjoyed this fic  <3


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